A Song of Hammers and Twin-Tailed Comets
by Trazyn the Infinite
Summary: When an Imperial witch hunter and his retinue find themselves stranded in a strange world by the machinations of a foul sorceror, how will they learn to adapt in a land that knows not of the threats to mankind, but yet is threatened all the same? How will Sigmar's will be done?
1. Klaus I

Warhammer Fantasy is property of Games Workshop and not mine in any way. Likewise, A Song of Ice and Fire and Game of Thrones are both property of George R.R Martin and HBO, and again not mine

KLAUS I

To say that Klaus Edelmann was at the moment unhappy would be wrong. In reality, he was bloody miserable. For a month now he and the witch hunter's retinue of misfits had been tracking this witch, and it seemed they would now perhaps finally achieve some measure of success in their pursuit.

Greasy grey rain drizzled down upon their party from an equally greasy ominous sky, the color of old charcoal, or perhaps the color of freshly exhumed bone. Surrounding them, pressing in on them, was the dreaded Drakwald forest, with its gnarled and grasping foliage. Even the tree trunks seemed foreboding, for Klaus swore that at the right angle, one could spot faces embedded in the cursed wood of the gnarl-trees.

Klaus suppressed a shudder, but arranged the fingers of his right hand into the Sign of the Comet nonetheless. Truthfully, he believed he should not be as frightened as he was. He was a Greatsword of Carroburg, a righteous servant of Sigmar and of the Wolf-God Ulric, or at least tried to be. He knew his mates back home in Carroburg found his religious tendencies rather queer. There, a true Middenlander worshipped the fearsome Wolf-God of Winter, as far as they were concerned. As far as Klaus was concerned, they could piss off, his gods were his business, so long as he did not consort with the Chaotic.

Another shudder was suppressed, with less success this time.

Perhaps were he a younger man, he could comfort himself with reassurances that Chaos was something easily driven off with mere prayer and faith in the gods, in Sigmar. But as his hardened leather boots squelched through the sucking black mud, he could not help but feel anxious towards their mission and their target.

Were they walking, no, stumbling into a trap? It was said the followers of the Ruinous Powers were clever and conniving, able to lead all but the most wary of pious men to their doom, either spiritually or literally, even those vaunted members of the higher nobility and the famed Knightly Orders.

Could he be next?

Deducing that further considerations about his near future would be antithetical to his well being, he decided a nice swig from his canteen was all the remedy he needed at the moment. Pulling the sheepskin flask from his satchel, he took a long pull from of the miraculous liquid within, far more invigorating than mere water could ever be.

Back in Isenbuttel, before they had embarked on this godsforsaken journey, he had "liberated" a fine bottle of Tilean gold from the inn they had stayed in. It had been a dank and rundown place, hardly worthy of the title of inn, with a toady and slovenly innkeep who had appeared like as not to shit himself when he saw the distinctive stovepipe-shaped hat enter into his grimy hovel of a common room.

To be fair, almost shitting oneself was a rather appropriate reaction to spotting one of the dreaded members of the Holy Order of the Templars of Sigmar. He could still remember when he himself had been dragooned into service with the Order, almost 3 months back. How the witch hunter's suspicious and piercing pale blue eyes had bored into his own, seemingly judging his very soul on the spot.

Ubiquitous among his fellows, he wore the infamous tall hat of the witch hunter, featuring a gleaming skull icon emblazoned on its front, along with a long tobacco pipe tucked within the leather band binding the hat together above the brim. A pipe that hid an exceedingly deadly poison dart within its fine woodwork, Klaus might add.

His long leather jacket had swayed gently in the breeze, revealing a nigh on ludicrous arsenal of weaponry hidden among the inner pockets and belts of his clothing. Pistols, daggers, stakes, vials of all manner of liquid Klaus could not even begin to catalogue, sacred ashes, as well as a beautifully gilded pommel of an equally beautiful cutlass kept hidden in an intricately embroidered leather scabbard. He had no doubt in his mind that the witch hunter was absolutely deadly with any of those implements, and had likely used them at some point or another.

Klutzer, Adolf Klutzer, that was his name, Brother Klutzer of the Holy Order. Somehow putting a name to him did not help humanize him, but then witch hunters were by their nature something more or less than human. If not for the fact he was being offered 4 times overtime pay for joining the hunter, he would likely have seeked to run in the opposite direction as far as could, maybe or maybe not stopping for a rest in Miragliano. All the same, if he, a grizzled veteran of a half-dozen battles, could hardly withstand the gaze of Klutzer, he pitied the poor innkeep.

At least, he would have pitied him, if he had not been so stingy with the little amount of provisions he was willing to provide the group.

 _Where does that little toad get off, trying to cheat us out of our gold for some mouldy bread and weak beer?_ , Klaus had thought at the time.

All the same, a mean glare from Klutzer, and he had fallen over himself fetching them something hot that was not entirely weevil-ridden. In any case, Klaus had later found himself that night sneaking past their quarters, past the snoring innkeeper's room, past the closed door of Klutzer, the faint glow of a lantern creeping its way under the door.

Edelmann had been forced to suppress a snort, that even at these late hours the witch hunter could still be awake and active.

He had made no scraping indications that he was about to exit the room and discovers Klaus's skulking, so Klaus had continued past into the murky void of the darkened common room and into the wine cellar of the inn.

There Klaus had found his prize, like a treasure hunter plundering a Nehekharan ruin. A fine bottle of Tilean wine, vintage 2499 I.C. He had secreted the bottle in his rucksack, where he had managed covert sips of the stuff until now, where he had been reduced to only a flash worth of the stuff. However, as he savored the taste of the last sip, a rumbling voice to his right brought him out of his reminiscence.

"Hah, you been holdin' out on me then, dawri? Gimme some of that, then!"

Before he could so much as utter a protest, the wine was torn from his hands by the larger callused hands belonging to the dwarfen warrior and supposed inventor, Gorgi Okrisson, who had attached themselves to their little expedition for Sigmar-knows why.

Well, Sigmar and Klutzer perhaps knew. As for the dwarf himself, he was being tighter with his information than a Elf maiden's legs.

Isn't stopping him from drinking up all my bloody wine, Klaus thought uncharitably. When he was done draining the skin, the dwarf handed it back to the disenchanted soldier and belched loudly enough to ring out through the misty groves of trees, drowning out the gentle patter of the rain and rousing a murder of roosting crows, who flew off cawing into the deepening twilight.

"Ye call that piss drink? Why, if we were back in Karaz-a-Kerak, I'd show you drink that'd be knocking ye manlings clean on yer arse!"

Gorgi's voice rumbled like his kind were well known for, sounding more like an approaching storm than actual speech.

"This is a proper grimaz, ain't it? How da ya manlings tolerate livin' in such an awful place? I've seen bottomless pits more cheerful than this!"

Another laugh like a thunderclap.

For all his current discontent, Klaus could not help but agree. His dissatisfaction was such that he forgot to remind the dwarf that most humans did not in fact live in a haunted swamp such as this. After all, this dimly lit path was indeed quite awful, and not at all cheerful

"We should be approaching the tower soon, unless that map was lying to us" Klaus had argued. Considering they had bought it from a local halfling game warden, Klaus knew the chances it was actually lying to them were less than slim

Truthfully, he had no idea if they would be approaching the tower, but he did hope to the gods it was soon. Suddenly, Gorgi came to a halt. "Look there dawri, the hunter has stopped"

Until now, they had been following the dim glow of the witch hunters lantern through the fog, which had indeed come to a stop. With a shared look of apprehension, Klaus and Gorgi moved forwards to the side of the witch hunter where he now stood, peering intently into the gloom.

As their eyes adjusted, they spotted what he was looking at. They now stood in a clearing, a rolling meadow covered in sickly yellowish grass that gently rolled upwards, culminating in a large hill upon which sat the most dilapidated tower Klaus had ever laid eyes upon. It seemed to defy gravity in the way its stones leaned over, coated in moss and algae, covering the perhaps once white stone with a hue better described as green-grey.

It appeared to stand about 5 stories high, with a window at every story. All but the highest window were dark, the glass long since shattered. But from the highest came a greenish light, a light that pierced through the darkness even from the distance they stood at now, but which did not seem to be a very comforting light at all. In fact, Klaus felt very uneasy even looking at it, and from the scowl that now seemed carved into the stone-like face of Gorgi he felt quite the same.

Of course, no man or dwarf alive could match the scowl of a witch hunter, and Klutzer was no exception.

No one spoke, until Klutzer finally turned back to cast his baleful gaze upon them. His eyes gleamed an eerie light-blue, like ice, and Klaus didn't think he imagined the ironclad conviction and nigh-fanatical determination behind the frosty hues. Klutzer was a witch hunter, after all

"We have arrived. Send the signal." His tone was like iron, the purpose behind his words striking the ear like a hammer

At that, Klaus removed his travel-worn satchel, and pulled out a crudely crafted pistol device. He took a deep breath, and pointed it in the air. No going back now.

With a piercing bang the flare flew from the device, bathing the twilight mists with a fiery red glow. It soared through into the sky, hanging there like a bleeding comet. It was a spectacle, but not so much as what happened next.

Firstly, after only a couple of seconds, the ground seemed to roil and writhe, and grey mottled hands clawed their way to the service, only to next reveal gaping maws full of worms and rotted teeth. These maws let forth mournful moans and cries, that only seemed to intensify as more and more of the dead rose from their slumber. With a shout the trio had their weapons out and ready in an instant, Klaus with his greatsword, Gorgi with a fine dwarfen hammer, and Klutzer with his cutlass, shining and deadly even in the dim light of the clearing.

Just then, they were treated to the next spectacle, one they had prepared just for this possibility. As loud and clear as day, a great screech echoed through the air, and the flapping of great wings heard with it. Klaus glanced up, to spot the fourth member of their band descend from the sky, riding a mighty beast of black and gold feathers, gleaming golden eyes, and razor sharp talon. An Imperial Griffon, screaming for the blood of the enemies of Man, the enemies of Sigmar. Klaus grinned, for perhaps things were not so shit after all.

EDIT NOTES: Just felt like cleaning up the first chapter a bit before I post the next one


	2. Robb I

ROBB I

A bright ray of light through his darkened window and the distant baying of hounds.

These were the first things that Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North, noticed upon awakening in his bedchamber in the Great Keep in Winterfell. He rolled over, expecting to see the soft glow of the morning streaming in, but immediately noticed this was not the case. Instead, it seemed to Robb that it was the hour of the wolf, and dawn should not be here for some hours. Curious, he pulled the furs off of himself and slowly rose from his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes all the while.

 _Who in the Seven Hells is waving around a torch like that at this hour?_ Robb frowned now, he had intended to spar with Jon in the yard the following morning, it would hardly do to have him stumble about like a drunkard for lack of sleep. All the same, he hastily pulled on his breeches and a roughspun shirt, slipping into a pair of stockings and well worn leather boots. He slowly made his way to the window, careful not to trip in the dim light.

With a quiet click he threw open the window, feeling the cool air of late summer spill into his bedchamber. Winterfell he could see in the moonlight was dark and foreboding, jutting spires and turrets half-seen in the dark of earliest morning. To his instant confusion, he could not spot anyone in the courtyard below with a torch or lighting a bonfire, only a few scattered night guardsmen, who seemed to be looking up and pointing at something in the sky.

Robb craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse at what they were staring at, but found whatever it was to be blocked by the rest of the Great Keep, apparently on the other side of the building. Robb groaned and turned towards the door, making his way across the dark ironwood floor, which gave away not even a creak as his feet gently pattered upon it. As he pulled open the door and moved into the equally dark hallway, he narrowly avoided colliding with a shadowed figure making its own way down the hall

"Gods Robb, watch where you're walking! I almost set you on fire!"

Robb now sighted the candle that was aglow in the darkly clothed hands of the figure in the hall. He could see its owner better too, with its long face and solemn look. In the dark, the dark brown hair and deep grey eyes both appeared almost black, the mouth turned into what was almost a grimace, but not quite.

"Well Jon, perhaps you should not be skulking outside my bedchamber in the dead of night then. Fully clothed, no less! Either you've found yourself a girl to meet with away from prying eyes, or you're just as curious as I am to see what that light was, Snow"

Robb's auburn eyebrow raised in amusement, his Tully blue eyes shining with silent laughter as Jon Snow spluttered in indignation, clapping his half-brother on the shoulder and sidling into the hallway, taking the candle from Jon's hand

"Aye, well come on then, before we miss...whatever it is!" Robb hurried down the hall, twin footfalls echoing through the torchlit stone hallway of the dormitory area of the Keep evidence that his brother was right behind him. Through twists and turns they hurried, past the rooms of their presumably sleeping siblings, slowing to a crawl when sneaking past the quarters of the Lady of Winterfell, neither wanting to rouse the ire of either Lord or Lady Stark with their midnight antics.

Fortunately, no guards were posted within the Keep this night, and Gage would not be waking with the rest of the cooks to prepare the breaking of fast for some hours, so Robb and Jon discreetly made their escape through a side door of the Keep, rather than risking discovery by going through the main door. Less fortunately, this also meant that they exited the Keep on the same side of the building as their own rooms, and thus could still not spot what had generated the commotion. Glancing about, Robb could not see the guardsmen he had seen before, nor anyone for that matter. A frigid breeze blew suddenly, and Robb shivered, now regretting not having brought a cloak with him in his haste.

Robb turned towards Jon then, rubbing his chin with a contemplative look on his face. "If I remember correctly, Theon is out at the brothel in Wintertown, else he would've probably woken us up first"

Jon snorted and rolled his eyes. Theon Greyjoy and his belligerent attitude towards Jon was hardly his favorite subject, regardless of how much Robb looked up to the cocky youth. On the rare occasions the Ward of Winterfell managed to convince the Heir of Winterfell to join him on a covert expedition to an inn in Wintertown, he made a point of gloating to Jon's face that he was not invited. Robb always had the grace to look guilty then, but never enough to do something about it.

Robb opened his mouth, likely about to make another astute proclamation when he was interrupted by a scuffle from above them, and the sounds of cloth scraping on stone. Jon rose the candle and squinted at a spot of wall that was too far away for the candlelight to reveal the culprit. Furthermore, in the dark of night the candle dimmed their night vision, so that they could barely see outside the corona of light thrown off by the small fire. As though aware of them noticing it, the sound ceased immediately.

Robb watched as Jon quirked an eyebrow suspiciously, looking as though he were considering something. Suddenly, a look of realization struck him, and he grinned.

Jon turned to Robb, still grinning, and stated very clearly and loudly, "A truly amazing discovery, Robb, one that is sure to make us into heroes worthy of the songs! But you must be certain not to tell Bran!"

Robb stared at Jon blankly, not understanding, until finally he realized what he was doing. _Clever bastard_ , he thought fondly.

Now Robb spoke, just as clearly and loudly, "To be certain, brother, for what we have found could just possibly make him into the finest knight the world has ever seen, putting even the likes of Arthur Dayne and Aemon the Dragonknight to shame! We must hoard this discovery for ourselves!"

As both boys snickered and smiled over their cleverness, Robb heard a sigh, and then a thump like something falling from a distance. Slowly a short figure approached their small illuminated area. Even in the flickering candlelight, Robb could see auburn hair like his own, could see the light reflected from the bright blue eyes like his own. Eyes that were narrowed angrily at him and Jon.

A voice irately huffed, "You two think you're so smart, don't you?" Brandon Stark stood with his arms crossed, his displeased expression reminding Robb of Mother when she was angry, or perhaps more in this case like Sansa when she was being petulant over something or another that Arya had done.

Jon crossed his arms right back and responded gravely, "Well, perhaps you should have been more quiet. Anyways, I'm sure that your lady mother wouldn't be very happy to hear that you've taken to climbing the walls in the dead of night, too. She worries enough about your climbing as is."

Bran had the decency to look temporarily guilty, but quickly rallied and defiantly stuck out his lower lip, his eyes glowing with boyish bravado.

"Well, I don't think she'd be happy to hear you and Robb have been sneaking around at night, either!"

Robb again suppressed a laugh at his brothers cheekiness. Bran had always been a clever one. He stepped forward towards Bran, kneeling and putting his hands on his younger brothers shoulders. For a boy of seven namedays, he was growing fast. Father always said that Bran would likely be the tallest of the Stark children once he was fully grown, a fact that Bran took no small amount of pride in.

Robb mustered the most serious voice a boy of ten and four could muster and said to Bran, "Do you know why we're out here tonight?"

His brows furrowed, Bran hesitated before responding. "I...saw something outside of my window, a bright light or something. I looked through a hole in my door and saw you and Jon walking down the hall. I decided to climb down the wall to follow you"

Jon cocked his head to the side and inquired, "So you decided to climb down instead of just walking?"

Bran stared at him like he had just spoken nonsense. "Why wouldn't I?" He cast his gaze down, and murmured now, "Anyway, I thought that it might be an enemy or bandits. I thought I should help you two, since I'm nearly a man grown. Father says so!"

Robb chuckled at this, for Father had always been fond of attempting to compel his sons to act responsibly by telling them they were nearly a man grown, even if they were nothing of the sort. He had even started it with Rickon, who was all of 3 namedays old. Sometimes Robb secretly envied Jon, for when he was a man grown he would not have any of the responsibility that Robb would have to bear. But in those moments he always felt guilty for his envy, for he had no doubt in his mind Jon would bear all the responsibility in the world without so much as a single complaint if it meant he could be Jon Stark of Winterfell, and not Jon Snow the Bastard.

"Well, we wouldn't want to have you desert your duty, would we? Try to keep up."

Bran rolled his eyes at that.

"You're the slow ones, not me! Standing here chatting in the dark."

Robb stood, and sharing an amused glance with Jon, turned about started walking around the Great Keep, Bran hurrying to follow them. Now in the open, he could truly see what a magnificent night it was. Chilly, yes, but the stars shone brilliantly. From here on the south side of the Great Keep, he could see the King's Crown high in the sky, next to the Crone's Lantern and the Moonmaid. A brisk breeze rustled the leaves on the oak's, whistling as it rushed through the gaps created by the seven fine stone pillars that held up the small sept in the centre of the lawn. Father had built that sept just for Mother, so that her gods would have a place in her home. Sansa had always been the one to sigh and simper over that kind reminder of the deep and abiding love his parents held for one another, but Robb thought the sentiment sweet as well. Privately, of course.

"Robb! Over here!"

Robb was pulled from his contemplation by Jon's urgent call. Frowning, he noticed that Jon and Bran had already crossed across the lawn and under the bridge that led to the main courtyard. Robb quickened his pace, passing under the shadow and entering the courtyard, now surrounded on all sides by the great towers of his home. Jon and Bran stood near the west wall of the Keep, heads held high. Humorously both boys mouths were agape, as they stared at something high in the sky. Next to them stood the guardsmen, who Robb could now see were Fat Tom and Hallis Mollen, similarly transfixed. Robb advanced forward, finally passing the shadow of the Great Keep and finding his view of the sky completely unobstructed.

His mouth fell open too, then.

There in the sky burned the brightest star he had ever seen, glorious and radiant. He remembered tales told when he was only a young lad, tales of mighty portents and omens of the coming of great events. He remembered too the lessons of Maester Luwin, and his lessons on comets and heavenly bodies, lessons that Jon had always absorbed more readily than Robb himself, but still remembered. Neither came remotely close to preparing him for this. It shined nearly as bright as the sun, glowing hues of gold, red, white, and gold again. It was so bright as to be nearly painful to behold, blinding him with its majesty. But this was not the strangest thing about the star, there was something else.

This star burned with two tails.

Robb's mouth worked, but no words emerged, for before he could make them, it happened

A titanic crack, like a thunderbolt exploding right next to his ear, and a tremendous boom rolled through the air. After a few seconds, a titanic gust of wind blew into them from the north, from the object. Robb stumbled backwards as though struck physically, and he saw that Bran and Jon did the same, as well as Fat Tom and Hal. He breathed in deeply, attempting to regain his bearings as his ears rang with the aftereffects.

"By the Old Gods and the New…"

Robb looked up, saw what Jon referred to now. He saw the star no longer hung there, high in the sky. Instead, a beam of the purest white light hung there, pointing downwards. Pointing to something to the north of Winterfell, somewhere in the Wolfswood.

Alarm bells across the castle grounds pierced the early morning silence, and even from the courtyard the horses could be heard screaming and neighing, battering their stalls in the stables in an attempt to get free. From the distant forest the howling of wolves was heard, mournful and low.

Jon and Robb shared a brief glance, and were off in a sprint back towards the Great Keep, Bran attempting to keep pace with his shorter legs behind them. Father no doubt had heard the noise, he would know what to do.

The Lord of Winterfell would know what to do.

AUTHORS NOTE: This chapter, chronologically speaking, takes place after chapter 1, and maybe chapter 3.


	3. Heinrich I

HEINRICH I

 _Deliverance born on the wings of fire, by the light of the Comet, by the fury of the Hammer! Sigmar's will be done this day!_

Whispered words of prayer were lost in the screaming winds high above the world, where a man and his griffon floated on the beating of huge and powerful feathered wings, awaiting the agreed upon signal. Far below the fog and the mist coiled, sinuous and sinister like a snake, partially obscuring a sea of trees, a blanket of dulled greens and grey. Here, away from the creeping menace of the world below, one could almost feel at peace, bathed in the silvery glow from the white moon Mannslieb. In the high heavens beside the great moon sparkled all the shining stars, glorious to behold from such a height. In short, it was like a paradise.

Well, it may be like a paradise worthy of the God Born of Man, but it was also cold like the Wolf-God of Winter's icy breath.

Heinrich Alweis shivered violently in his armor of meteoric iron, a fine gift to him on top of a series of other gifts he didn't think he deserved at all. They had all been granted to him when he had been assigned this mission by the Emperor himself, with the Reiksmarshal Kurt Helborg right beside him. He remembered being visited in his chambers by His Imperial Majesty, in the dead of night. He was told to tell no one of his mission, and that he would serve a very important role in things to come, whatever that meant. He would absolutely do his Emperor and Sigmar proud, but when he was presented the next morning with this equipment, he was speechless.

Certainly, as a Knight of the Reiksguard, he was entitled to certain honors, but being bedecked like an Elector-Count he thought to be rather excessive. Above his brow sat Laurels of Victory, enchanted and blessed by the Arch-Lector of Nuln, and he had bound to the side of his saddle a beautifully engraved shield, crafted in Keraz-a-Kerak, and also enchanted by none other than the old Patriarch of the Gold Order, Hermann Gildenhaus. All were treasures great and famed, but still they paled in comparison to what he now held in one hand, even as his other hand kept itself busy holding the studded leather reins of his griffon. He spared a glance down upon it, as it shone brilliantly in the light of the moon. It was straight and true, the pommel hewn of old and well worn gold, the crossguard of newly pressed steel, having been repaired and replaced dozens of times over two-thousand years of usage. Its blade, however, was as fine and ferocious as the day it was forged by the fabled hands of Alaric the Mad. All down the metal, on either side of the fuller in the centre of the blade were inscribed ancient and mighty Dwarfen runes, runes of power and courage and fury. _Beast Slayer_ was its name, a name granted by a ruler long since forgotten, lost to the tides of time.

But this blade, this blade was not forgotten, for how could it be? It was a sword of ancient legend, of great deeds in a time of great men.

In short, it was a sword of heroes. And he, a mere mortal, was holding it.

 _Bedecked indeed_ , came the thought once more, unbidden. A sudden shifting in the otherwise smooth motions of his griffon's wings brought him back to the waking world. Victory was a mighty beast, strong and fast, raised from hatching by Heinrich personally.

There was no other way to truly make a griffon yours than that. A griffon broken like a common horse merely tolerated the man on its back, and even that it did grudgingly. Sigmar help that poor fool if he try to poke the beast with his stirs, for the only thing he'd know after that ever again would be the eternal scolding of his ancestors in the realm of Morr as they mocked him for his stupidity in life.

But Victory, he was not that beast, and Heinrich was not that man.

He was the second son of a well-to-do baron with a fine estate along the river Reik, halfway between Worlitz and Kemperbad. His earliest memories were of helping his father count the barrels of grain before they were sent down the river to stock the larder of venerable Castle Reikguard, and fill the granaries of grand and glorious Altdorf a little further downriver still. His home was stately and fine, with loyal and familiar servants, green and grassy lands, and all manner of hospitalities that lent themselves towards his having a fine childhood. Fine, but not glorious.

All in all, not the sort to own a griffon. That was the irony of life, though, wasn't it?

It had gone unquestioned until the only way it could be answered was snatched away from him when his father had been slaughtered along with the rest of his party as they travelled the road to Grunberg. His brother and mother knew as much as he did, which was nothing, no reason why his father had returned from his travels one day to present his second son with something that better belonged in the Imperial Zoo than a baron's estate. It had to have cost a fortune, for the egg of an Imperial griffon was worth more than its weight in gold, far more.

Rather than stay and grow old and feeble off his brothers labor he took the path so many second sons and bastards had taken before him.

He would become a knight. Well, after he served his time in the pistoliers.

And as a squire.

And a novice.

But, here he was now, as Sigmar ordained for all men, a purpose finally found.

Having a griffon for a mount certainly helped matters, too.

Low rumblings issued from Victory's throat, rumblings that threatened to erupt into a full-blown screech. He scanned below for the cause of the creature's discontent.

A red light glowed, dim but visible, rising higher and higher through the choking fog that hugged the earth. Finally, the signal!

 _Sigmar be praised, I was starting to get bored,_ a feral grin breaking out upon his handsome tanned face. Today, the vile and corrupt would taste Imperial might! Sigmar's will be done today!

With a kick and shout Victory responded, the thick sinew of his muscles straining as it contorted its great body down, towards the fight, towards prey. Just as predicted, an ear-piercing shriek came forth from its beak, past rows of razor-sharp teeth that were now exposed and glimmering in the night. Air rushed past his visor, making his eyes water even as his stomach lurched at the sudden drop. Another man might have faltered and fainted, but not a knight of the Reiksguard.

Into the mist and fog they descended, the pure light of above fading into dim eerie glow of the deep forest. Heinrich pulled hard on the reins, and Victory responded, slowing their descent until they circled low over the scene below. From here he could see his companions, already engaged in pitched combat with the vile undead.

He grunted in disgust. Few things angered a pious man than such mockeries of Morr, as vile and pathetic as these lower zombies were. As he watched, the band tore into the rising horde, his comrades battling with a gusto that did his righteous heart proud. That Carroburger with the magnificent hat and mustache, Klaus was it? He sliced two, three monsters apart with every strike of that greatsword.

There was his master for the time being, the implacable and admittedly frightening Brother Klutzer. No witch hunter was pleasant to work with, but this mission was divinely ordained, so he would give his life if that was asked of him. Down below the witch hunter made good account of himself, a whirlwind of death among the dead, slicing through the shambling corpses with his cutlass even as he blew holes in others with the master-crafted pistol he held in the other hand.

Most impressively was that Dwarf, Gorgi. Even from here, Heinrich could hear his booming laughter, carrying on the wind. His hammer shattering rotting limbs and cracking open greenish skulls to reveal disgusting maggot-ridden brains inside.

Enough scouting, he had to hurry if he wanted to slay any at all before the battle was won already. As though he read his mind, Victory dove downwards into the horde, which was now joined by ever more abominations that poured out of the trees and the brush, grasping and groaning for the warm flesh of the living.

With a thunderous crash the griffon touched down, the impact alone throwing away many of the horde like so many malformed ragdolls. With a single smooth, practiced motion Heinrich slipped out his saddle and harness and leapt from the beast, grabbing the shield as he did. It truly was a thing of beauty, coated in gilded skulls and etched sigils, passages from the _Deus Sigmar_ proclaiming the fury and righteousness of Sigmar the God, and of course not an inch of space went without a twin-tailed comet somewhere.

It was almost a shame how quickly it became splattered with the spilled blood of the dead.

Heinrich was a wraith himself, swirling and lunging, never allowing the hands of the zombies to get a solid grasp on him, for otherwise he risked being pulled down by the sheer weight of the creatures pressing in upon him. His footing was sure and nimble even on the soggy ground, and despite the cool air that he drew into his lungs with every hurried gasp of breath he found himself covered in sweat almost instantly. He was a veteran of many years of service in the brotherhood of knights that protected the Emperor, and this was not the first time he had faced the mindless wretches in pitched combat. This experience kept him alive, as he sliced where another may have stabbed, always ensuring he did not get his weapon caught in the foul flesh of the undead, leaving him defenseless. He rested assured that his flank and rear were protected, for Victory quickly reduced any that approached him there into mere ribbons of meat with his wicked talons and razor beak. Victory he knew preferred the meat of the living, but he was gamely snapping up abominations in his maw only to snap them in two as a hound would snap a branch. He fought with a grim certainty that would have made the Knights of Morr proud indeed, for he was doing the work of the Lord of the Dead this day.

Gradually the horde thinned, their attacks abating as the dead broke on the living like an angry sea breaking on the rocks. Roared battlecries and screaming shrieks overcame mournful moans and hungry growls, and he caught sight of his erstwhile allies again, surrounded by a mountain of the once-more dead.

He trotted over, occasionally stopping to bash in the brains of a limbless or crippled zombie with his armored boot. As he approached, he saw Klaus seated upon a gnarled tree trunk, wiping the blood and viscera off his monstrous blade with the bottom of his boot. He pulled out a flask from his satchel without looking at it as though the task were subconscious, before a look of realization appeared on his face. He cursed and returned the flask to its place in the satchel, muttering a quiet curse as he went back to his work. Klutzer was looking rather nonchalant, wiping some imagined dust off of his longcoat sleeve, and lighting some tobacco in his finely carved pipe. In all, he had the appearance of a man who battled the vile undead every week. Considering his occupation, that might not actually be all that far from the mark. Klutzer zeroed in on Heinrich with those scary blue eyes of his.

"Ah, Sir Heinrich, I am glad you could have joined us. You have done Sigmar's work today," Klutzer took a long pull from his pipe, exhaling a billow of smoke that was tinged with a hint of blue. "It would seem the recommendation they gave me about you was well placed."

A statement like that from any other man would be begging a _Who is they?_ From a witch hunter…

"I am the metal, and Sigmar is the hammer, sir!" A finely patriotic answer that revealed nothing.

Klutzer raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. In any case, all of you have been quite a help. I was having my doubts about our chances of surviving this ambush yesterday, but it seems I was mistaken."

Gorgi had been quiet now, chatting with Klaus, but he spoke up now, his face carved into a grimace. It was frightening to behold, but hardly frightening enough to unnerve a Reiksguard knight, nor a witch hunter it seemed.

"Wait a Gazul-damned moment, Umgi! Are ya' tellin' me that ya' _knew_ we would be fightin' the Uzkuli here?" Now Gorgi turned red in the face, his fists clenching hard enough to crush bone, like two small boulders.

"Obviously," Klutzer spoke as though he were talking to an incompetent, "or do you think I just go about with a griffon-riding Reiksguard knight _everywhere_ I go? Besides, you agreed to our deal despite knowing full well the way was fraught with danger. Perhaps you wish to go back on the deal? I had always thought the Sons of Grungni had more integrity than that."

Gorgi's beady dark eyes flashed murderously, and a low rumble like a landslide grinded out of his throat, but otherwise he kept his silence.

A shadow of a smile appeared on the witch hunter's face. "That's what I thought."

He turned back towards the tower, and strode towards it purposefully. Klaus rose and followed him, careful not to step in anything too putrid, Heinrich right behind. With one last angry huff Golgi was off too, his stubby legs pumping to keep up. Victory stretched and curled, coming to rest in a small patch of grass amongst the shattered bodies, but keeping his sharp eagle-eyes trained upon the treeline in case any other monstrosities thought to surprise them, if these creatures could think at all.

There was but one door to the tower, though it was wide enough for two people to stand in the doorway side by side. Strangely, the door seemed relatively new, its hinges shiny and well oiled. At that, Klutzer gave a curious noise, but said nothing. Instead, he glanced at Klaus and nodded, stepping aside. Klaus stepped in front of the door, and gave it a mighty kick, the shiny hinge groaning in protest. One more kick and the door flung open, revealing only a dark opening inside. Klaus turned towards the group, his brown eyes glinting humorously, and a grin on his gruff face.

"After you, sir knight!"

With an uncharitable rolling of the eyes Heinrich stepped forward, his blade drawn and his shield raised as he waded into the inky black of the tower's interior.


	4. Klaus II

KLAUS II

Klaus was certainly no stranger to strange places. He had fought the Beastmen in their blasphemous forest shrines to the Dark Gods, chopped his way through the vile Orcs in the wastes of the Borderlands.

All the same, the lair of a necromancer was somewhat beyond his average paygrade. Which is why he was pleased that he was not risking his immortal soul for anything less than a small fortune. So he had that.

When the knight had first ventured into the dark Klaus more than half expected him to never appear again, devoured by the countless abominations to Sigmar that no doubt prowled in the dark.

Instead, the fool lit a torch, and was met with nothing but an empty passageway, which seemed to run towards the center of the structure, where Klaus imagined was where the stairs to the top of the tower ran.

Klaus idly scratched the side of his face, rubbing the whiskers that grew there. Beside him, Gorgi stood with his hammer ready, looking rather disappointed that he would not get to use it once more.

"Well, that's a bloody let-down if I ever saw one, aye?"

Klutzer stood with his hands clasped beyond him, as straight as a pole. "Indeed, I had been relishing slaying more of the Anathema."

To the reckoning of Klaus, the witch hunter looked like he lacked relish of any kind, but he supposed that was just the nature of the Holy Order. As a group they made their way down the passageway. On the walls were pennants and paintings, of a rather surprisingly homely style. He saw banners of prayer to Sigmar, and small woodcarvings of common devotional scenes. He picked one up and inspected it, almost expecting to find a foul Mark of Chaos adorning it. But no, just wood.

Klaus raised a bushy eyebrow. "Who bloody lives here anyway, my grandmum?"

Klutzer gave a snort. "Only if your grandmother dabbles in the Dark Arts."

Klaus frowned. His granny did not dabble in the Dark Arts, but she could however make delicious strudel, to make a halfling master chef green with envy. If halflings could turn green. A thought for another time.

He put down the carving, and sniffed deeply of the damp air. "You smell that, lads?"

In response, the witch hunter smelled deeply, and narrowed his eyes. "Black powder. Fresh, too."

Klaus rubbed his head in confusion. He smelled it now too, the acrid, sulfuric stench like rotting eggs, though he couldn't speak as to it's...freshness. He had been smelling it all his life, after all, it was as familiar to him as an old friend. But to smell it here…

"Why is it here, then?" Heinrich finally spoke now, voicing the thoughts of the entire party. He removed his steel helm and cradled it in the nook of his elbow, a black haired eyebrow raised. "And where?"

Klutzer directed his unblinking attention about the room, looking here, staring there. Finally he narrowed his eyes at a small desk in an alcove on the right. It was a crude thing, with imperfections obvious in the wood. It sagged at an angle, like an aging whore, further evidence of the mediocre work. An extremely, unusually, obviously average construction.

"Gentlemen, assist me with moving this desk," Klutzer and Klaus each grabbed an edge. "It makes me suspicious."

Klaus barely suppressed a snort. _Every bloody thing makes you bloody suspicious, you paranoid maniac_. But he managed to silence his tongue, and his thoughts too. Just in case.

Lo and behold, just as the witch hunter predicted, there it was. A trapdoor, just small enough to fit under the desk. This door was unlike the door to the building, being worm-ridden and held in place by an extraordinary rusty hinge. Klaus pulled the handle gingerly, for fear that it would collapse under his touch. Surprisingly, the void was lighted, though the angle of the trapdoor meant he could not see past it into the space below. He unstrapped his greatsword from his back, and threw it down first.

He muttered to himself, "Ulric guide my steps, I suppose." At that, he leapt the short distance and landed heavily, rolling with the fall. As he rose and got his bearings, he was struck by the sight before him.

This was no mere cellar, it was a bloody armory. On the wall opposite he saw a veritable quartermaster's collection of weaponry, arquebus and pistol, long rifle and halberd. All seemed to be rather new and free of wear. Along the wall beside his own were rows of barrels and casks of foodstuffs, all packed in jars and bottles for long term storage. As he made his way towards the middle of the room he inspected the centrepiece. There sat a strange device, wrought of copper and steel, all elegant lines and carved insignia's. In the center sat a sphere, that was surrounded by a series of bars that connected to form a cage of sorts about the sphere. At the apex of the cage was placed the blessed twin-tailed comet, crafted from some metal that shined and caught the light, making the metal look like it were truly aflame. Surrounding the cage and sphere was a single metal ring, upon which rested a series of spheres, that Klaus recognized as being the planets. It was strange, and undoubtedly threatening, but it was not the most frightening thing in the room to his reckoning, no.

That would be the crackling and lightening sheathed blade that was now being held at his throat.

Klaus gulped, the hair on his neck and head standing on edge as the shimmering sword sent small arcs of electricity sparkling along his jawline.

"Heh, mate, I appreciate the work, but I already have a fine barber back in Carroburg."

He risked a look at the blades bearer. It was a man, clad in long fine robes of swirling midnight blues and fiery coppers. All across the cloth were small moons and stars, embroidered in gleaming silk-of-silver. His head was uncovered, though upon his brow sat a circlet of beautiful bronze, embedded with glittering gemstones, shining emeralds and rubies. They all seemed to pulse and shake as Klaus viewed them. His face was rather plain to view, age worn and more than a bit scarred with a small goatee of light blonde like his hair upon his chin, though nowhere near like Klaus himself. But his eyes, which were themselves a midnight blue with flecks of lighter azure, almost shone with an inner energy, the energy of the heavens and the stars themselves. A bloody Wizard, this one was.

"Ah pardon me, Master Wizard, I would raise my hat in salutations, but I seem to have left it back upstairs. I also must compliment."

Slowly, the wizard pulled back his blade, still keeping his eyes trained on Klaus.

He cleared his throat and cocked his head to the side."I presume that you are a Greatsword of Carroburg, and a servant of Sigmar too?"

Klaus snorted at that. "No, I'm the King of Bretonnia"

If he was amused by the jest, the wizard gave no sign of it.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. "I am Johann Geller of the Celestial Order, and that man there is my brother, Jakob, of the Jade Order."

Klaus raised an eyebrow. "Your brother? Who in Sigmar's name are you talking…"

That was when he noticed there was indeed a man standing next to him, where there wasn't before. This man was clad all in greens and light blues, like a mountain stream fed by snowfall. His robe was quite simple otherwise, a small leather belt attached at the waist, on which was tied a polished silver sickle with a fine wooden handle. His hair was a blonde like his brother, but darker still, almost brown. Also just like his brother were a pair of striking eyes, except these were the deepest green of the forest, with flecks of glimmering jade.

When he spoke, it was quiet and yet clear, like he was both hearing it in his ears and his head. "If I were you, I would ask the witch hunter to put away the pistol."

Klaus raised both eyebrows now. He looked back and saw Klutzer hanging upside-down from the edge of the trapdoor, holding a cocked pistol in each hand towards both wizards. He spoke clearly, "I'm fine, no need to get rash, sir."

Silence for a few seconds, and then the sound of a firearm being uncocked. Klutzer's harsh tones drifted down. "I assume the grey one knew I was pointing a pistol at his head without even seeing me do it? Wizards, ugh." Klutzer sounded as though he were talking about a particularly disgusting insect. He righted himself and jumped down into the cellar, Heinrich right behind and Golgi staying up to keep watch.

To their credit, neither mage flinched from the baleful gaze of the witch hunter. "Why might there be two wizards hiding in a necromancer's cellar, might I ask?"

Now the brothers looked at each other. Johann spoke up. "Not his tower. This is our tower, he merely stole it from us. We barely managed to hide in here before he broke in with his undead horde. We were working on an… experiment."

 _Ah, so it definitely wasn't granny. Praise Ulric. Seemed rather strange choice of decor for a necromancer anyway._ Klaus chuckled to himself, quietly.

However, if looks could kill, the Geller family would suddenly lack two members in that moment, for the eyes of the dreaded witch hunter were upon them. Klutzer spoke carefully and clearly, like a hunter preparing his killing shot. "An experiment? Of what nature?"

Johann sighed, like he was resigning himself to a difficult task. "Yes, an attempt to use the Winds of Magic, especially Ghyran and Azyr, to pierce the realm between worlds. We discovered ancient Elven writings on the subject. That is why we pooled our money to acquire all of this, so we could arm and outfit an expedition of sorts to whatever we find beyond the veil. We believe we were very close to a stable, working portal when the necromancer found our tower, and decided to take it for himself. Hence our current predicament. So our aims align, it would seem."

Klutzer spoke venomously, "So it would seem. But if I catch even a whiff of treachery, no magical portal anywhere will let you escape from the wrath of Sigmar, sorceror. Now come, we must make haste to dispatch the filth at the top of the tower."

Together they rushed out of the armory, up the spiraling stairs in the centre of the building, up towards the inner sanctum. As they approached the top, Klaus was struck by a most peculiar stench, one that made his head hurt and his eyes water.

"Taal's breath, what is that smell?" Klutzer held his sleeve to his face, undeterred.

Gorgi sniffed, looking unaffected. Must be that spending his life in the mines and forges made him immune to most ill-smelling substances.

"I've smelled that before, it's damned warpstone"

Klutzer grimaced, his eyes shining furiously. "We have little time, then. That wretch must seek to enact some foul, blasphemous ritual."

They came upon the final door before the sanctum. It was huge and wrought of bronze, the surface coated in protective wards of all kinds. Klaus, Golgi, and Heinrich pushed with all their might, but it did not budge.

Jakob stepped forward now. "I can undo the wards. After all, I put them up in the first place. But be ready, he'll know as soon as the door is open."

At that Klutzer reached into a side pocket on his jacket, and pulled out a small talisman. From what Klaus could see, it was a small device of the Hammer of Sigmar, the fabled Ghal Maraz. With a whispered prayer, Klutzer placed it about his own neck.

He drew his greatsword and stood with it in front of him, the dwarven-forged steel shining gloriously, for all the good that would do against a magical attack, and his comrades did the same. Even the wizard Johann raised his blade and a glimmering copper staff, topped with a glass sphere that shone an electric blue.

With a whisper and a sound like glass shattering the wards broke, the great door flying open with a tortured screech. Inside the sanctum was light in the same sickly green glow they had spotted outside, a glow they now saw was from a nefarious device of some kind that was attached to an edifice of stone on the far side of the room, an aperture inside of which glowed a silvery white portal. Inside the shimmering white haze of the portal, images flashed, like a glimpse of a dream. They shifted quickly, but Klaus though he saw a white wolf, a tree with red leaves, a black dragon, a wall of white. He understood it not at all.

Sputtering and whirring stood the device, which was all gears and tubes and wires without any sense at all in the design, no logic or sanity. At the centre of the device sat the source of the light in the room, a chunk of sickly green glowing rock. Warpstone.

In front of the stone were a series of levers, dials, and cranks. Attending to them were a hunched over being, clad in tattered robes of black and green. He turned back to face them, his face haggard and cruel, almost skeletal in its gauntness. He cackled evilly, and raised a withered staff of bone, pointing the edge towards the witch hunter

Klutzer was unfazed, and pointed a pistol at the wretch, declaring loudly, "Foul heretic, you are charged with performing blasphemous witchcraft and vile heresy against Sigmar. In the name of His Imperial Majesty Karl Franz, I judge you guilty, and sentence you to die."

His eyes glowering with malice, the necromancer spoke. "Foolish worm, you are far too late. My ascension has begun! I shall become a god!"

At that his staff began to shimmer, a purple haze gathering about the skull crowning it. It was something that Heinrich had seen once before himself. It had been earlier in his career, when he was attached to Graf Todbringer's army as they purged the Beastmen from the Drakwald. A mage had joined them at the Graf's blessing, a sinister figure of purple and blacks. He had worked horrible magics against the Beastmen, causing them to wither and die before him. He had been a Amythyst Mage, and it was those death magics that the necromancer now weaved.

His eyes widened along with the rest of the party, as a bolt of shadowy violet rushed towards the witch hunter, just as a bullet exploded with deadly intent from Klutzer's pistol. Naturally, the bullet travelled first, and collided with the chest of the foul sorcerer. He stumbled, and collapsed against the controls, not dead but clearly out of commission. His bolt, however, was anything but, as it smashed into Klutzer, throwing him off his feet and half the room back.

Klaus rushed to his side and bent over his prone form, expecting to see his master with a gaping hole where his chest used to be, but to his surprise Klutzer seemed alive, if rather dazed and out of sorts.

That was when Klaus noticed that the hammer talisman was now smoldering, glowing red hot even as it collapsed into dust. Clever bastard had enchanted the thing, so he would be unharmed by the death magic.

As though reading his mind, Klutzer opened his eyes and gave a weak smile to them. "Gentlemen, do you really think I've survived this long without knowing any tricks about preventing my magical demise? Yet it is a shame about the talisman, it truly was like a little piece of the Divine Hammer. Well, get me up, I must make certain that filth is dead."

He was pulled to his feet, and stumbled ahead of them, pulling out another pistol from his scorched jacket. He strode to the necromancer, aiming between his eyes. He gave the wretch a wicked grin. "I would ask for last words, but that would be rather naive."

His finger pulled on the trigger, but before the deed was done the necromancer yanked on a lever near where he sat, an insane look on his ravaged face. "You have not won. I shall pierce the veil, and you shall be exiled!" He laughed maniacally, which was put to silenced quickly when a gaping hole opened in his forehead from the bullet of a pistol.

All the same, the machine roared in response to his actions, the warpstone glowing malevolently. In response, the portal glowed brighter and brighter, almost blinding. Around them the stone walls shook and rumbled, plaster falling down upon them. Johann had a horrified look upon his face and muttered to himself.

"It's… opening? BY SIGMAR BRACE YOURSELVES!"

At that they all dove for whatever meagre cover was available, even as a white light washed over them.

Then they knew nothing, save for silence.

 **Author's note: They're not dead, lol. Next chapter our heroes finally meet the residents of the new world. Should be out in a couple days max, I do have uni to work on too.**

 **Author's note 2: I edited Jakob into being a Jade Wizard, I thought that would be more interesting come future events.**


	5. Robb II

ROBB II

Robb certainly had to admit, were this merely a hunting trip he might actually be quite enjoying himself.

He had got to see Lord Gregor Forrester and his sons Rodrik and Ethan, for they had joined with the Stark party the afternoon before, having seen the sign themselves and sent a search party of their own. His father showed graciousness and thanks, and Robb could tell that however well he hid it Father was relieved to have assistance in this task. Rodrik was a strapping fellow, loud and friendly with a finely kept beard and laughing eyes, and he had become instant friendly with Robb, Jon, and Theon, who had accompanied Lord Stark. His son Ethan was a lad of ten and three, and was quieter than his brother, though likeable enough. However the rather serious duty they had that brought them out here was casting a pall over everyone present. He looked up the hill towards where his father and Lord Forrester sat around a fire, breaking down the camp and talking all the while. No doubt discussing their plans for finding what sent the Sign, as the smallfolk were now calling it.

Robb frowned now, thinking back upon that night, days back now. He had ran all the way to Father's room with his brothers, rushing past the rooms of their bleary eyed siblings, only to find that he was already dressed and ready to go and take charge. He had first asked after their sibling's naturally, that his family were safe. When assured they were, he commanded Bran to stay in his room and rushed outside with Robb and Jon hot on his heels. Robb didn't think he imagined the relief on the faces of the men when Lord Stark came to watch over them. In some ways he was as much a father to the household as he was to Robb and his family. Ser Rodrik presented himself first, having raised and rallied with admirable speed. Fat Tom and Hal came next, and explained what they had seen. When Father had appeared skeptical, asking if the guards had been drinking, Robb and Jon had shared a look and knew they had to divulge themselves. After a moment of silence, they had stepped forward, corroborating the guardsmen's stories. They relayed to their father their midnight adventure, how they snuck into the courtyard, and how the comet with two tails appeared and then disappeared with a tremendous thunderclap, leading to the Sign, which pointed north towards the Wolfswood. They omitted Bran's part in the fiasco.

Father had frowned then, telling them they were nearly men and should not be sneaking out of their chambers in the dead of night like boys. All the same, Robb knew that Father was more upset that his sons may have endangered themselves than he ever would be about some juvenile behavior on their part. When no threat had presented itself, Father had summoned all of the important people of his household to an impromptu council of sorts, with himself, Mother, Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin, and Robb attending. It was decided that ravens would be sent to all the holds surrounding the Wolfswood, telling them to be watchful of any potential danger, but otherwise that Lord Stark himself would handle things. That very day, while breaking his fast with the family he had announced he would be leading an expedition leaving that very day, and that Robb, Jon, and Theon would come with him. Arya had begged to be allowed to come with them, naturally, and just as naturally Father had refused her with a stern tone and a face set in stone. She had huffed with annoyance at that, but accepted his decision finally, though not without Sansa lecturing her that the Wolfswood was no place for a lady. Bran had simply given Jon and Robb a thankful look, knowing they spared him Father's wrath.

Mother had merely wished them luck, but before they left she came to Robb in the stables, and took by the hand begging him to stay safe. He had anxiously laughed at that, for he himself was rather apprehensive about what they would find, and told her that Jon would make sure nothing happened to him, because that at least he could be certain of.

Mother's nervous smile had disappeared then, to be replaced by a face that seemed to be hewn from the same ice as the Wall. _Ah, you bloody idiot, Robb_ , he remembered thinking at the time. Mentioning Jon around Mother was incredibly foolish, considering her feelings about the bastard son of the Lord of Winterfell, the same bastard that lived in his castle and was raised with his children, _her_ children. But she said nothing after that, only embracing Robb and again telling him to return home safely.

Now they set out once more for the day, having broken their fast on salted bacon and hard bread from their rations. They moved on horseback through the forest in a double column, Father and Lord Forrester leading. Two rows back were Theon and Rodrik, who were of an age, piercing the quiet of the morning forest with loud and ribald jests, laughing all the while. A biting chill made its presence known with a sudden gust of wind, a sharp contrast to the warm glow of the rising sun of early-morn. It whistled through the leaves, which twirled and shook on the branches around them, raising in volume louder and louder until it sounded less like an innocent breeze and more like the screaming of some great bird.

Robb could have sworn the bird-like screaming lasted even after the wind had finally died down.

He was shaken from his reverie by Jon pulling his courser up next to Robb. "Ill-wind, I'd say. Does it have you frightened, Stark?" He knew from the wan grin on Jon's face that he meant it as a jest, and he grinned right back, "Not a chance, Snow. Though I'm sure _you're_ about set to piss yourself." They shared a hearty laugh then. It felt good to laugh, for it helped to calm the tightening feeling growing in his chest.

"What are you two laughing at?" That was Ethan Forrester, who had been silent most of the morning, only occasionally speaking with his father and brother. He was a rather slight youth, a year younger than Jon and Robb, with dark brown hair like his father and blue eyes that Robb assumed came from his mother. From what Robb could gather, Lord Forrester intended for his son to learn more of the responsibilities of being a lord, even if he was the third son, though second in the line of succession ever since his elder brother Asher had been exiled some years ago for that affair with the Whitehills.

Robb gave him a welcoming smile, slapping Jon on the back. "Ah not much, just my craven brother here confiding that he's scared witless. He's going on and on about wildlings, Others, snarks and grumpkins. I daresay he's about pissed his breeches." At that, Jon maintained a solemn expression, though Robb saw that his eyes gleamed with amusement. Ethan for his part chuckled, pleased to be included in the joke.

Jon drew himself up with dignity, and declared in a voice that was eerily reminiscent of Father, "Robb, we are nearly men grown, and thus pissing our breeches is not an act to be taken lightly, and we must take care whom we are with if we do."

All three of them exploded into laughter at that, drowning out even Rodrik and Theon, who cast them a cocky grin over his shoulder. "Gossiping about something there, ladies? Perhaps Snow has spotted a handsome stable-boy he fancies?" Theon laughed at his own wit, and Ethan and Robb with him, though quieter than before. Robb noticed however that now Jon's solemnity was genuine, and the good humor had fled from his face like a deer from a hunter. He sighed, as this was a scene that had repeated itself a hundred times before, and likely would a hundred times again. He considered Theon a brother, and Jon was his brother just as surely as Bran and Rickon, but Theon's endless jabs prevented him and Jon from ever having anything like that. Robb had always wondered if Theon wasn't jealous in some way of the bond between himself and Jon, if that was why he was so cruel to Snow.

His thoughts were disturbed by the sudden halting of the column, as Father brought the group to a sudden halt. Robb urged his horse forward, towards the rocky outcrop ahead where Lord Forrester and Father now were, conversing with a returning scout who had come rushing from the underbrush with important news. Apparently, he had come upon a clearing not far away, and that there was a rather sizable stone tower standing right there in the middle of it, here near the south-eastern portion of the Wolfswood. When they got there they spotted no signs of life, but had not gotten close enough to make sure, having immediately fled to bring news back to their lords. His father and Lord Forrester had looked mystified then, which he would later learn was because no tower was supposed to exist here in the forest where this one did. These scouts were sure of it, and they were men who had spent their entire lives plying the great wood for food and furs, they knew it like they knew their own cock, or so they claimed. It was as though it were conjured from thin air. It was not lost on the men that this was roughly where the Sign had pointed towards either, in this verdant green of deep forest. They kept their voices quiet, but Robb had heard the men gossiping around mouthfuls of bacon and swigs from ale-horns that perhaps the gods meant for them to _not_ have come here, and that they were stumbling into disaster. Robb wanted to deny it as ignorant superstition, but sometimes he was not so sure.

Sometimes he felt as though the very trees were watching him.

Now Father turned to him, and he was aware of how cold the sweat that clung to his skin felt. Father commanded that he, Jon, and Rodrik would accompany himself and a few soldiers out to the tower, Lord Forrester would stay behind and keep the reserve ready in case they were needed.

Robb prayed sincerely that they would not be, that the tower would be abandoned. But the gods often did not listen to the prayers of men.

Now they set off into the wood, just the small group, leaving behind them the idle chatter and crude jests of the main party. It was amazing how quickly they were swallowed by the wood, how in an instant it was just the silence of their thoughts and the distant calls of the forest. Birds sang with a sweet clarity, and the breeze still rustled the trees. An eagles scream pierced the sky, shrill and sharp. To Robb's reckoning, it sounded strange, both distant but also as though it would be deafening if it were close. Perhaps his mind was playing games with him.

Or perhaps not, for Jon leaned in close and spoke, his voice low and cautious, "You heard that too? What manner of bird sounds like that?"

Robb had no answer for him, but tried his best. "Perhaps just some big songbird, after all, these forests are ancient." Jon looked as unconvinced as Robb felt.

In spite of the suspense, the woods were truly quite beautiful now, as the sun rose higher and higher on its path to the western horizon, towards the Sunset Sea. Bright light of that sun broke through the thick canopy overhead, covering the ground in soft white patches that shimmered with the shifting of the leaves and branches. Here the trees were ancient, gnarled and twisted with centuries of growth, untouched and unseen by none until now, save perhaps for the Children of the Forest, long dead as they were. Covering the ground was the dank and dead leaves of those trees, and they reeked of old rot and mold, and yet in some spots small flowers sprouted, simple and pretty. Robb smiled to see them. Perhaps he would gather a bushel to bring to Sansa, she'd love that. He'd have to keep it secret from Theon though, lest he suffer days of mocking.

In the distance he could barely spot a point of light that slowly grew as they led their horses forward. This must be the clearing the scouts had spotted. Father motioned for them to stop, and dismount. As he swept down from his mare with a practiced motion, Robb rubbed the side of its head, quieting its discomforted nickering as he tied the reins to a nearby tree. Now they advanced slowly, creeping forward past green lichen covered boulders towards the aperture in the brush. No one spoke, for fear of revealing their position to a potential foe. They had yet to arm themselves, but he saw that Rodrik kept his hand on the hilt of his blade, a determined look in his blue eyes. Now they were nearly to the opening, and he could hear...singing?

" _Where march you, men of Reikland, where carry you halberd and sword... We march to war for our Emperor, and Sigmar our saviour and lord..."_

It was sad and slow, sounding almost like it was being spoken rather than sung, carried by a deep voice that clearly belonged to an adult man. A glance towards his family and Rodrik revealed that they too heard it. Now Rodrik had his sword out and at the ready, and Robb placed his firmly on the hilt of his own, feeling the coolness of the leather contrast with the sweat that was now collecting on his hot palms. His heart was beating like a drum, so loudly he half feared that the singer would hear it.

" _Tomorrow we go to war, to face the hordes of Chaos... Tomorrow we will be buried, in cold graves that await us… Into the arms of Morr we go… For thou art but dust, this we know..."_

He just barely heard Rodrik murmur under his breath, "Grim bloody song he's singing, isn't it?" In response Lord Stark gave him a withering look and he quieted instantly. They gathered around the opening, careful to remain on either side of it. Robb chanced a look out into the clearing.

There indeed was a sizable tower, with about five stories or so to it height-wise. It was a dilapidated thing, seeming like it had seen better days. That was of itself curious, for if the tower was newly built it would appear new, would it not? All about the tower was the clearing, which from where they stood seemed to be a perfect circle, all green grass and flat land, as though no forest had ever existed there at all.

Some distance away he could see a singular stump among the green, on which sat the apparent source of the singing. He sat towards their clearing, but had his eyes turned down to his lap, on which sat one of the largest greatswords that Robb had ever seen. It shined in the morning light, and yet the man sat polishing it with a rag all the same, just as Robb had seen his own father do in the silence of the godswood. As for the man himself, he was garbed in finely crafted black lacquered armor that coated seemingly only his chest and right arm, with a single plate affixed to his right leg above the knee. His clothing was flamboyant and colorful, alternating red and white from his stockings and breeches, and he wore fine brown leather boots. Perhaps the most noticeable part of his uniform was his hat, a glorious and towering thing, with a rim that tilted to one side and which crowned with a plume of red and white feathers, that added nearly a foot to his height. He had a gruff, scarred face that put Robb in mind of Ser Rodrik, with an equally fine mustache and great, big bushy sideburns. He sang still, and Robb could hear it clearer now, the peculiar accent of the man drifting to them from his place on the stump.

" _And when the fighting is done, and the sun goes down at night... Hear my prayers, save my soul, and take me to Sigmar's Light..._ "

Robb turned now to Father, opening his mouth to ask what their plan was. But no words came out, for he saw that his father and the rest of the group now stared wide eyed at something directly beyond Robb. He slowly turned to see what they gaped at, but was stopped by a male voice that cut through the silence, a voice that was both cold and unyielding.

"Do not move your head any further, boy, or it comes off. In the name of Sigmar, identify yourself and explain why you spy upon a Templar of His Most Holy Orders?"

Robb stood still as stone, fearing that he would receive a sword in the neck if he did. He gave a wide-eyed silent plea of aid to Jon and Father, who both looked equal parts furious and sombre. Rodrik on the other hand kept his sword up, and his eyes locked on the intruder, but made no moves beyond that. Now Father spoke, drawing himself up with formality and regality that Robb only saw when Father intended to appear his most impressive.

"In the name of King Robert of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, I am Eddard of House Stark. By all the Gods, you will put away your sword and step from my son or I will kill you, Ser."

Robb could hear the man's snort of contempt, but apparently the man stepped back, for Jon motioned for Robb to come to them, and he quickly rushed over to their side, immediately drawing his sword from its sheathe and facing the stranger. He was tall and lean, and was clad in a billowing leather coat that extended all the way to near his ankles. It was strapped all over with all manner of killing devices, from knives to darts. Two strange tubes wrought of metal and wood were bound to his chest, with two more on his belt. In one hand he held one, and in the other was a long, slightly curved blade, glittering steel with a fine gold handguard. On his head sat a tall hat that put Robb in mind of a stove-pipe, and which was inscribed with a glittering skull insignia. His eyes were as cold as his voice, a pale blue that bored into Robb's own, feeling as though they judged his very soul with icy malice. His face was arranged into a scowl, which Robb got the distinct sense was quite familiar to it. If he was threatened by their unsheathing their blades he hid it well, for his look was one of mere disdain.

"I know of no King named Robert, nor any house named Baratheon, nor any folk called the Andals, Rhoynar, or First Men. I also fear you are mistaken, sir. These lands belong to House Todbringer of Middenheim, and to His Imperial Majesty Karl Franz beyond that." He had instantly changed from a voice of chilling menace to a conciliatory tone of pleasant disaffection with dizzying speed, but Robb had the sense that it was not because he felt threatened in any way by the Stark group.

After a short silence, Father spoke up once more, "I fear I do not know whom this 'Karl Franz' is either, nor this 'House Todbringer'. These lands have belonged to House Stark for thousands of years."

Now the stranger looked mildly put off, his face paling the slightest bit. "It is as I fear then, now if you would, come with me. I hope that we may come together and discuss this as gentlemen."

Without another word the stranger was off, striding out of the brush and towards the tower. Robb could see now that the soldier had risen from his stump, and now leaned lazily against his greatsword, nonetheless keeping his eyes locked upon their group. He belatedly realized that the man had likely known they were there the whole time, and the revelation unnerved him. All the same, the men haltingly re-sheathed their weapons and followed the stranger, following the stranger. Father looked to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder, wordlessly reassuring him. He and Jon shared a look, fear mingling with curiosity on Jon's dark features.

There was a mystery to solve, and their duty to do so outweighed their apprehension. Robb prayed once more to the Old Gods and the New that they were not making a grievous mistake.


	6. Heinrich II

HEINRICH II

Heinrich was not by any means a cruel man. He had slain many a foe, both man and abomination, true, but that was done in the name of the Empire, and there could be no higher cause than that. He was no Grail Knight, but he believed that he did the work of Almighty Sigmar. All the same, the terror and fear that would be inspired in the natives by a mighty and holy griffon brought him some minor grim satisfaction.

He exited the tower, having watched the entire ploy play out from the beginning from a window on the second floor. He was fully armed and armored, just in case Klutzer's confidence in his own ability to intimidate was misplaced. Of course, it was not.

They had known for some days now that the locals were closing in on their location, for Heinrich himself had spotted them on the back of Victory. He remembered having thanked Sigmar profusely for having sent the great beast through the Veil with them. When he had stumbled dazed out of the tower into sunlight and bird calls, _sunlight and bird calls, in the Drakwald?_ , they were greeted by Victory's relieved squawk, as the griffon sauntered over to him. Johann the mage had explained to them that they had indeed pierced the Veil, and that the world they inhabited now was not the one they had left behind. Naturally, Klutzer did not believe the word of a sorcerer, and thus planned his little ambush for the ignorant natives. If they were folk of the Empire, the sight of a witch hunter giving them the evil eye would make them soak their underclothes. However, these "Stark" folk had proven ignorant of the danger that a witch hunter posed to one's health.

Lucky lot they were, these people.

In more ways than that, too. One of the first things that they were struck by in this new world was just how, well, safe it was. This forest was not half as threatening as the Drakwald, was downright bright and cheery if a little cold.

When they were brought into the tower for an explanation, sat around a creaky old table in the library of the fourth floor, Heinrich took the time to assume his most imposing posture as he stood by the door, the sort he only assumed when he was on parade or if he was guarding the life of His Imperial Majesty himself. He could tell it worked, for the two younger boys constantly eyed him despite their attempts to appear like they weren't, no doubt impressed and intimidated by his elaborate armour. Neither appeared to be older than fourteen, with the one having dark hair and grey eyes, and the other (the one that Klutzer had threatened, Sigmar help the poor lad) with auburn hair and bright blue eyes like the witch hunter's, except on this boy they were more like a midday sky than the pale ice of Klutzer. If they had not been introduced by the older man as his sons, Heinrich would never have guessed that they were kin. If anything, the older boy, _boy, he's barely younger than I am,_ seemed more likely to be brother to the auburn-haired boy. The older man, who asked to be referred to as Lord Stark, for supposedly he was master of these lands, though he owed fealty to a King. From that he gathered that these foreigner's political system was a primitive feudal one, much like that of Bretonnia.

For all his observations and presence he was silent, allowing Klutzer to do all the talking. And talk he did, for hours and hours until the sun rose high in the sky. Lord Stark requested to be allowed to send the older boy back to his main group, so they would not be missed sorely, but otherwise sat and beared through the "negotiations". Heinrich certainly had no great love for Klutzer, but by the Comet could the man interrogate. He dodged and needled, gaining valuable information about their circumstance, learning of Lord Stark's position, some of his history, that the two brothers were Robb Stark and Jon Snow (Snow being a name that bastards here received in place of their fathers names, apparently) while the older boy was named Rodrik Forrester. In return Stark knew only that Klutzer was named Klutzer, and that the formidable figure by the door was Heinrich. As they had prior agreed, (or rather had been informed would happen by the witch hunter) they would not reveal they had wizards in their party, in case these folk were given to slaying magic-users on sight.

Even now, Johann the Celestial Mage plied through his magical scrying in the sanctum upstairs and his observations of the heavens hoping to chart a path to the future, while Jakob the Jade Wizard waited outside in the forest, ready to lend a hand if the natives proved hostile. Heinrich thought it unlikely they could meet anyone who detested mages as much as a witch hunter, but kept his silence, as a Reiksguard often must.

Finally, Klutzer ceased his verbal onslaught and leaned back, pulling his pipe down from the leather band of his hat, and meticulously filling the handsomely carved piece with strong-smelling tobacco from a pouch secreted somewhere in his coat. Heinrich saw confusion cross the Stark's faces, and then surprise as Klutzer lit his pipe and took a long pull, lazily expelling smoke from his nostrils like a lounging dragon. Clearly these people had never seen tobacco before. Klutzer wouldn't be happy about that, whereas Klaus would likely be irate. Heinrich personally found it a dirty habit, preferring to keep his body untainted by such things. When he informed the Greatsword of that, the man had laughed and slapped him on the back, the dirty ruffian.

As if remembering his manners, Klutzer wordlessly offered the pipe to Lord Stark, who stared at it for a few seconds before giving a small wave of dismissal. Klutzer shrugged and simply took another, even longer pull, staring intently at Lord Stark all the while. Witch hunters were very good at menacing stares, it seemed. The two Stark boys shared a look, rather discomforted at the whole situation, and Heinrich did not blame them. He was certain that silence now hung in the room as heavily as the blue-tinted smoke that filled the air did.

Or at least it did until the Dwarf showed up.

Previously having kept himself busy in the small forge he had set up in the armory, now the big creature strode in, his hammer slung across his back and his face coated with grime and soot.

He boomed a greeting, speaking far more loud than Heinrich thought appropriate in such a small area. "Ah, so these are the manlings ye' been harassing, eh Klutzer? He brought his beardlings too, the _Riki_!" From the wince that appeared on the native's faces, he could tell they thought so as well.

Klutzer grimaced, and indicated towards Gorgi with a wave. "Ah, gentlemen, this character here is Gorgi Okrisson, Dwarfen smith, and warrior in service to High King of Keraz Ankor, Thorgrim Grudgebearer"

Gorgi cleared his throat. "Dwarfen _Runemaster_ , I'll have ye' know. Of the Clan Morgrim."

Klutzer rolled his eyes. "Yes, Dwarfen Runemast…" His eyes widened, and a look of shock threatened to overcome his features, but he quickly schooled them back into a mask of casual disinterest.

As for Heinrich, he was glad his face was covered with a visor, because his mouth was hanging open and his eyes must be bulging from his head. _A Runemaster? By the Hammer, the Comet, and the Fury of Sigmar…_. A Runesmith. A Dwarfen bloody Runesmith. For the Dwarfs, the Runesmith was the closest thing to a magic-user, except even more so. It was they who forged the greatest weapons, weapons imbued with the titular runes that made them beyond mere killing tools into objects of legend. And a Runemaster, well that was the greatest of them. When a Runesmith became a Runemaster, they rarely left the confines of a Dwarfen hold ever again, except on missions of great importance.

No wonder he had been so tight-lipped about his mission here. They would need to have a talk with the Dwarf, by the gods. Now Gorgi was content to sit his sizable rear in a hopefully sturdy chair in the corner of the room, and watch the exchange from afar.

For his part, Lord Stark clearly noticed the reaction of his hosts, one dark eyebrow quirking in confusion, but he merely nodded and gave his cordial regards back to Gorgi. It also seemed he was more savvy than he looked, for he quickly took advantage of Klutzer's stumble to begin pressing him for questions.

"So, Ser...Klutzer? Might I ask what exactly it is that you are doing here, on Stark land, having built a new holdfast? And without knowing anything about this land, as though you were a foreigner, and yet you speak our language? You must excuse me, but that sounds rather suspicious."

Klutzer frowned at that, remaining stubbornly quiet a few seconds more, but finally relented. "Well, Lord Stark, I must admit that we are...lost, I suppose. Also, I am no knight, merely a Templar of His Most Holy Orders, charged with keeping the Empire...untainted. Heinrich Alweis there has the privilege of being a knight of the mighty Reiksguard, temporarily assigned to...assist me in a manner that his particular skills have great use. But rest assured Lord Stark, we wish you no harm. We are merely pious and humble servants of the Emperor."

"As you have said. But when we first met, you threatened my own son with death. I don't know very much about this 'Empire' you hail from, but here that is not the way to begin a relationship built on respect." Stark looked unconvinced, frowning right back, but his eyes softened just the slightest.

"However, I realize that you are ignorant of this land, and that you perhaps thought us to be bandits, so I shall forgive this slight. Know, however, that if you ever raise a blade against my family, by the Old Gods and the New again you shall not live to see the next day."

As if to lend credence to his threat, his two sons drew themselves up considerably in their chairs, blue and grey eyes glimmering with defiance

Heinrich had to bite back a laugh. If Klutzer determined it necessary, the witch hunter would absolutely massacre this foreigner's family without a second thought, and sleep soundly the next night, with false heathen gods of this land being able to do exactly nothing about it (After all, Sigmar was with Klutzer, just as he was with all of his righteous servants, and no god could stand against Him). Of course, that would only be if he determined their line to be tainted, in which case there would be no innocents among them, no men or women or children. Only the impure.

 _Tolerate not the impure to live_.

But Klutzer did not make such a determination, and smiled indulgently at the Stark.

"Of course, we would not dream of such, my lord. I am pleased we could make an accord. Now then, I would be remiss as a host if I did not offer the usage of my...our humble abode for you to rest tonight, for I have no doubt that you are quite exhausted after your long trek."

Lord Stark looked towards his sons then once more, and turned back.

"No, I suspect that my sons wish to return to our home castle, Winterfell, as soon as possible, and I agree with them. Besides, my men will grow restless, not knowing how I fare. However I would say that you and any of your fellows will be welcome in Winterfell, so that we might...talk further regarding your 'situation'."

 _Situation indeed._

Klutzer nodded, and then drew himself up to leave, straightening his coat as he did. He opened the door for the Stark party, and waved them through, following behind. He leaned in to Heinrich.

"You and the Celestial Mage are coming with me to this 'Winterfell', go and fetch him. I'll inform Klaus and Golgi that they'll remain here, keep anyone from getting too curious. That Jade Wizard will stay, too. Under no circumstances will you reveal that he has magical ability. To them, he should merely be a well dressed scholar, until I say so."

"Yes, my lord. Right away"

Heinrich left his master then, hurrying up the stairs towards the inner sanctum. He passed through the empty passageway, the door remaining torn off the frame. Where once had stood the portal now stood only the cold stone edifice, the infernal device a twisted ruin beside it. No bright light poured forth from the opening, and the only light of the room came from the blown out windows and the torches lit on the walls. Johann stood nearby the portal, staring intently into a blue crystal that glowed with unearthly celestial energies. By him were scrolls and scrolls of charts, coated with stars and planets and graphs of their movements and bearings. He spoke without looking up.

"Sir Heinrich. What might I do for you?"

"Lord Klutzer wants us to move out, we're to accompany the natives back to their home castle. Your brother will remain. We leave now."

Johann rolled his eyes, but got moving anyway, pulling a leather satchel off of a hook. He then went about grabbing what scrolls he could, as well as a few spare under-robes to wear, stuffing them all messily in his pack. Heinrich's inner soldier screamed at the untidy nature of it all, and a grimace passed his face, but he said nothing.

After a few minutes the wizard turned back to him.

"I am ready. Let us embark on our adventure, then."

* * *

When they came outside, the main Stark group had already formed up all around, apparently having been led to the tower by the older boy, Rodrik. They all looked rather on edge, and were visibly relieved when they saw their liege emerge from the tower unharmed. Lord Stark's sons mounted up and assumed a position beside each other, now talking animatedly with one another, having finally escaped from the analytical eye of Klutzer, who lacking a horse was given a spare by the Stark's. He clambered atop the beast with a smooth flourish, taking the reins with practiced ease. As for Heinrich himself...

Lord Stark turned to him then, motioning to his men for another spare horse to be brought.

"Ser Heinrich, our offer of a horse extends to you as well."

Heinrich smiled at that, and removed his helm, revealing his mane of black hair and his tanned face.

"No need my lord, I have a mount already."

Heinrich turned towards the treeline and put his hand to his mouth, letting out a piercing whistle. For some moments, there was silence. Lord Stark look quizzical, and raised his eyebrow at Heinrich.

A screech cut the air, a hundred times more piercing than his whistle. All around horses reared and screamed, threatening to buck, as their riders brought them to a safe distance. A figure swept down from the clouds, a blur of fury and wrath given flesh. Rapidly the shape could be discerned, brown feathers with black and gold tint on wide wings that beat the air. Talons flashed, and two shining eagle-eyes in a head full of razor teeth came to regard the party with keen interest. More gentle than one might expect for such a big creature, Victory landed, tilting towards the new people, inquisitive clicks emerging from his golden beak. Quickly Heinrich pulled down Victory's head to him, stroking him below the ear the way he knew the griffon liked. He felt the beast calm, and finally grabbed the strap of the saddle, pulling himself upon the beast with a single motion, plate armor and all. It was something he had done a hundred times before. Now he looked towards the stunned and amazed foreign party. Lord Stark and his two boys joined the rest of the men in gaping at the mighty animal, some ducking their heads and murmuring prayers to whatever gods were listening. More than a few of the men had pissed themselves, he could tell even from here, dark spots appearing at the crotch of their breeches. Klutzer alone looked rather unfazed, perhaps faintly amused. Heinrich shot their group a winning grin, one usually reserved for adoring maidens and wide-eyed children at military parades.

"What's the matter, gentlemen? Never seen an Imperial griffon?"

No one laughed at the jest.


	7. Johann I

JOHANN I

 _It was cold as the farthest reaches of Norsca, cold as Kislev midwinter. The air was frigid, burning his lungs with every breath he took. He felt his robes, rich and cascading, and yet the chill tore through them like they were mere tattered rags. It was a screaming wind, shrieking and violent, the scream of the murdered, of the dying. About him encroached a black forest, the limbs malevolent and grasping. These trees were no mere pines or conifers, like those he had climbed in the forests around Talagaad with his brother when they were but boys and happily ignorant that in only a few short years they would be snatched from their loving home and shipped to Altdorf to hone their magical ability, lest their souls fall to the depredations of Chaos. These trees had faces, snarling and frowning, carved into white bark that wept with red sap. They were strange and foreign, the homes of gods that had yet to feel the pacifying presence of the White Wolf of Winter, nor the Horned Stag of Summer. Even as he stood, they closed in, surrounding him, attempting to smother him in darkness._

 _Somewhere, a crow cawed, than a dozen, than a hundred._

 _Cawing for him, for all of mankind._

 _He clenched his eyes shut, and bade himself go to peace._

 _Another wind blew now, quieter, a wind that he had heard a thousand times before. This was no screaming death wind. This wind was fading, fleeting and titillating, whispering in his ear, yet just quiet enough he could not discern what it said to him. It pulled away, and he pulled forwards, away and forward, away and forward he went. Now the wind was inspiration, an idea or a paradox, gently forming shapes to that which had no shape. He could the see the shapes now, the unknowable now known, a narrative written for a story that never existed._

 _He could see the stars._

 _About him light pulsed, an ethereal light that carved into the shadows, shadows that bled red sap._

 _Now the crows cawed once more, in protest, fleeing for their dark holes in the shadows as the maelstrom of thought and expression raged, erupting from his mind like lightning from a tempest. All fleeing from...Them_

 _They made nests in the night, in the great wall of ice, in the hearts of men, frozen by their chilling presence, and yet raised to walk._

 _They made the dead walk._

 _The dead… Ah._

 _Him._

 _Johann turned to the trees, which parted and shrank before his luminous gaze._

 _All but the figure._

 _He stood in the center, a crow perched upon his shoulder, unfazed by the display, by the raging storm. Why would he? He feared no end. He_ was _the End._

 _Now the figure raised a bony hand, face obscured by a shaded hood, his other hand clenched tightly about a scythe with a handle of withered bone. He pointed far and away, miles and miles to the North, to what displeased him so. Blue eyes in the cold, the dead denied their passage, they could not cross, they could not rest. Blue eyes stopped them, and made them walk._

 _They must rest._

 _He had to help them. He knew that now._

 _Johann turned to the figure._

" _How?"_

 _No answer._

 _He had a task, but no guide. No help. Or did he?_

 _He heard_ it _, too, now._

 _Drums and thunder, song and laughter, war cries and triumphant shouts._

 _He heard victory. He heard hope. He heard the blood of his ancestors. He heard the blood of his god, the blood that ran in all of His Sons._

 _He heard the Comet, and he heard its Master. His Master. Master of Mankind._

" _Where?"_

 _Silence now._

 _It struck him like a hammer, wielded by Him._

 _Nearby, not so far._

 _Now he saw blue eyes, like a lake, and red hair like a fire. He saw a boy._

" _Who is he?"_

" _Who indeed?"_

 _Now the stars faded, and the sky grew lighter and lighter, blinding him, burning him…_

* * *

"Magister? MAGISTER! By the Hammer if I must kick you to rouse you from your slumber I will!"

At least he knew that voice.

Johann Geller opened his eyes in an instant, where they came to rest upon the eternally displeased visage of Witch Hunter Klutzer. His cold blue eyes narrowed at him.

 _Blue eyes in the cold…_

"We are moving out posthaste. At this rate we should be at the Stark's castle in a few days, no more. Ready yourself."

Fortunately for Johann, preparing to move out was as simple as pulling on his formal robes, and stuffing his bedroll back into the satchel he carried it in. He took in the sight around him.

He saw indeed that the camp was breaking down, the fur and leather clad natives pulling down tents and dousing fires, some doing so around mouthfuls of cold bacon and swigs of ale. His camp was shared with that of Klutzer and Heinrich, their small fire now only ash, extinguished some while ago. Klutzer he knew was already finished packing, his meagre personal effects neatly folded and tucked into a saddlebag that he now swung over his borrowed courser. He had the suspicion that the witch hunter in his professional paranoia had slept little, if at all. Heinrich had likely been awake for hours already and now was positioned farther away, fully armored, about halfway between their camp and the nearest camp of the natives, and was now praying his morning prayers before a small altar of Sigmar he had erected in a patch of grass. It was a crude, makeshift thing, little more than a carved statuette of Sigmar's Hammer. As Johann watched, Heinrich finished his devotions, ignoring the prying looks being sent his way by a nearby group of natives, the two sons of the Lord Stark among them. With a sign of the Comet made over his heart the Reiksguard knight was finished, removing the statuette and packing it into his own knapsack, his hand idly resting on the pommel of the Runefang he carried as he strode towards the treeline.

Apparently after the dramatic unveiling of that monstrous creature the knight rode about as a mount, Lord Stark had asked that he keep the creature well away from the main camp, so as to prevent the horses from panicking. Johann had been rather impressed, for when Stark made that request the terror and awe had been obvious to see in his expression. He might even venture to say that the men were at a greater risk of panicking than were the horses. Lord Stark had required that Heinrich swear upon his honor as a knight that the griffon would harm no one, to which Heinrich responded that Victory killed only the wicked. A fine non-answer, and which allowed him to commit to nothing concrete. Clever man.

His musing was interrupted by a loud clearing of the throat from Klutzer, who now motioned towards the horse next to him, a sturdy-looking garron he had taken as his own from the Stark lord's own stock. He mounted up, and straightened his back, appearing every bit as regal and dignified as a Wizard of the Celestial Order could be.

* * *

Not unapproachable it seemed however, for as the day wore on the younger lads that had accompanied the party out rode just behind his horse. From here he could hear their murmuring and whispering, no doubt as they tried to deduce just what his purpose here was. He understood why they picked him. No doubt they were rather averse to the witch hunter after he threatened to murder one of their number, and the Reiksguard was somewhere high in the clouds now, hidden from sight.

He looked up at them now, staring at the billowing piles of white upon blue. Somewhere up there floated the Blue Wind, Azyr, the source of his power just as it was for all Celestial Mages. His dream… when he got the chance he absolutely had to converse with his brother. In private too, for he had no doubt the witch hunter would love nothing more than an excuse to leave both of them dead of a bullet to the brain. Of course, they could likely kill Klutzer if they had to, but they were still outnumbered, and witch hunters were not known for their unpreparedness. Besides, the all worked towards a common goal. Just what that goal was, however… this required further research. But these things could not be rushed, no.

In his pondering he failed to notice one of the youths ride up to him, and nervously hail him.

"Pardon me, my...um...lord?"

He almost startled at the sudden interruption, but maintained a mask of cool indifference as he turned to regard the boy beside him. A lesser lord of some sort rode with the party, and this was his younger son, Johann vaguely recalled. He couldn't be older than 12, with a mixture of sharp jawline and soft eyes that indicated oncoming adolescence. Johann didn't think he misread the apprehension in the boy's grey-blue eyes.

"I'm no lord, lad. Merely a Magister of the Celestial Order. And you are…?"

Now the boy paled considerably, and Johann could hear muted chuckles from behind them. Johann guessed that the boy had been put up to this by his young friends, dared to go and speak with the scary foreigner. When the boy remained silent, Johann sent up a single golden eyebrow.

"Oh! Ah...Ethan, my lor… uh my Magister! Ethan Forrester. I merely wished to ask, ah...why… you wear that jewelry."

Now the boys could not hold in their good humour, and the whole group broke into half-muffled laughs and juvenile giggles. He rolled his eyes, and responded with a flat tone.

"Because I intend to look beautiful for the ball."

At that, the lads exploded into laughter, and even the Forrester boy smiled some. Johann himself cracked a small grin.

That faded almost immediately when Klutzer, having caught wind of potential merrymaking underfoot, turned back towards where Johann and the boys rode. He shot them a withering glare that had the whole party silent as a crypt. With a mumbled apology Ethan pulled back his horse, falling in line with his compatriots. Johann could not help but sigh.

Good humor was in such short supply these days, whichever universe one found oneself.


	8. Bran I

**Author's Note: Sorry for the slight delay. Please, leave me a review. I'd love to know how you like the new POV's**

BRAN I

 _He felt, a peaceful place, like a place he had been before, before anything. It was warm, quiet, and dark, yet not stifling at all. He found he couldn't move, but it didn't matter, for he also found he didn't want to either. It was bliss. Yet, it was not silent. A thump, and then another, and another. It sounded like it came from everywhere at once, and yet it was as calming as the lullabies his mother would sing him when he was younger. Now it thumped, faster and faster, like a drum being beaten with greater and greater strikes. He was moving now, pulled away by some force he could not resist, that pulled him towards the light that now shined, painfully bright to his shut eyes…_

Bran's eyes shot open, and he sat up so quickly that he felt lightheaded for a moment. He glanced about him, confused for a moment, then remembering that he had climbed up the bell tower on the east side of Winterfell rather than his warm bed. He had taken to climbing up this spot in particular and staring at the Wolfswood in the distance, a field of dark green against the otherwise greyish draw of the land. He thought that maybe if he stared long enough, Father and Robb and Jon would come riding over the horizon and he could be the first to see. Mother had not been pleased, but then she was never pleased when it came to his climbing, never accepting that he simply knew every last stone and handhold on every last building in Winterfell. He could even climb in the dark if he had to. _I did that night, when I slipped out the window of the Great Keep._

Bran shuddered to think of that night. It had seemed like a fun nightly jaunt, and he had felt like half a man, out to face danger, like a knight of the stories. But then when the Sign appeared… he had felt like a little baby again. All the shouting, the bells ringing through the dark, the murmuring between the guardsmen as they ran to and fro, some still pulling on bits of armour as they stumbled groggily out of bed. He still remembered the relief he felt when Father had emerged from the Great Keep, looking alert and awake, with Robb and Jon right behind him. He had been so relieved, in fact, that he forget to protest that he was nearly a man when father told him to stay in the Great Keep with Mother and his sisters and Rickon. So there he had waited, in Mother's chambers with his siblings, scowling next to Arya that he was being treated like a babe. Rickon hadn't understood at all why he had to be wake up in the middle of the night, and had whined for about an hour or so before back asleep in Mother's lap. Sansa had surprisingly remained perfectly pristine and lady-like the whole while, though Bran knew his sister well enough that he could tell she was perhaps the most scared of them all, even Mother. She had calmed down a bit when Jeyne was allowed to stay with them, but then he had had to listen to both of them whisper and nervously giggle about something or other for hours. But in the end nothing had came of it, and Fat Tom came up to their chambers to tell them about the Sign that Robb and Jon had seen after sneaking out, that there seemed to be no one coming to attack them. However, he told them that Father said that in case it wasn't safe for them just yet, they should remain in the Great Keep until the morn.

It was not until he returned to his own chambers did Bran realize that Tom had said nothing about Bran's involvement, and probably saving him from being boxed in the ears by Mother. Since Tom would probably never cover for him like that, it meant that Jon and Robb were the ones responsible. That made him feel bad, especially when considered that he had called them both slow. He would have to apologize to them at some point. Besides, they weren't that slow, not really. He had seen them both in the yard, and they were both actually quite fast, Ser Rodrik said so, though apparently Jon was a bit faster.

All the same, neither of them would ever be as fast as Bran knew he himself would be one day, when he was a famous knight in the Kingsguard. They would all tell stories them about him, Bran the Fast, Bran the Strong, Bran the Mighty. But first he would have to grow up.

Bran wrinkled his nose at that.

For now, Robb and Jon wouldn't let him spar with them, saying he was too young, though at least they usually had the decency to say it without snickering. He had always been jealous of his older brothers for that, that they had someone their age to spar with, to be friends with. Rickon was too young, so Bran had no one. No one but Maester Luwin and his boring lessons.

At that thought, Bran cast his eyes up towards the sun, which was currently hidden behind a cloud of billowing white. It had been rather warm lately, for a late summer day. Or at least, that's what Maester Luwin had said. Bran himself wouldn't know, as he hadn't even been alive during the last summer. By his estimation, it was approaching midday, so no doubt Maester Luwin would be expecting him for lessons soon. He gave a long sigh at that, but quickly scrambled over the short stone wall down to the sheer stone wall of the bell tower. He must be three stories up, but Bran felt no fear at all. He had done this dozens times before. He stopped, taking in the scenery one last time before he descended. There was a very good reason this happened to be one of his favorite climbing places.

He took in the bustle of the castle below him, scanning the premise with wide, admiring eyes. Directly below were the stables, and he could see from here that Hullen was tending to that mare that was about to have a foal. She was a good mount, strong and compliant, and he had overheard his parents discussing potentially giving the new foal to Rickon to help care for, so he would learn responsibility and have a horse all his own. He certainly needed it, for even at only three namedays he was already a wild terror. Sansa had run crying to Mother more than once over Rickon ruining a dress of hers with his grimy fingers.

Past the stables he could see the forge, where the comforting clang of Mikken and his forge rang out through the midday light. But that interested Bran less than what he spotted beyond the forge. For there, making his way up the hill on a fine black stallion, was Fat Tom, his head hidden by a drawn hood. Bran wasn't certain whom he was trying to fool. Tom was the only member of the Stark household who wore a hood when they rode back into the castle. Not even Theon did that. Besides, it was midday already, and he was only now getting back from the brothels, or the whorehouses as Jon and Robb called them. He would call them that too, but the last time he had Mother had gasped and told him to not use such a nasty word as that. He grinned at the thought. Another thing he could do up here, with no one to tell him what to do. He cleared his throat.

"Bloody hells!"

Nothing. He didn't hear Mother's scandalized gasp. Maybe he could try louder.

"BLOODY HELLS!"

"BRANDON STARK!"

His eyes widened considerably. He looked down, his face stricken with panic. Sure enough, there was Mother, standing next to Maester Luwin. It seemed he had waited too long in leaving the tower, and Luwin had gone to inform her of his lateness. Even from here Bran could see the absolutely fearsome look on Mother's face, and the pitying one on Luwin's. He gulped.

"Brandon Stark, you will come down this instant, _on the stairs_ , and report to Maester Luwin for your lessons! Your father will hear about this when he returns, mark my words!"

Every harsh syllable out of her mouth made him wince. Quickly he hopped off his perch and flew past the great bronze bell that gave the bell tower its name and through the door, scurrying down the stairs like the Others were hot on his tail. It was wonder he didn't trip, but then his feet had always been nearly as nimble and sure as his hands. He stopped right before stepping out the ground door into the courtyard, grabbing the door handle with sweaty palms and slowly pushing forward, trudging forward towards his certain doom.

Eyes downcast, he barely saw Mother standing there with her hands upon her sides, the frightening scowl still plastered on her features. Harwin leaned against a nearby fence by the edge of the stable yard, watching his march of shame with an amused grin. Mother crossed her arms then, and spoke as sternly as he ever heard her speak.

"Brandon, I cannot believe that you would use such uncouth language! You are far too young to be swearing like a sailor, by the gods! Now, to your lessons, and your father shall be speaking of this to you soon."

At that she turned about, walking back to the Great Keep with her skirts trailing behind her, back perfectly straight and proper.

Bran then decided that it was safe to raise his eyes, which came to rest upon the wizened face of Maester Luwin, who tsked him with a shake of the head.

"Come now, lad. Your mother is right, you know. Little lords should not use such words."

Bran huffed, and muttered then,

"I thought no one could hear me, is all."

Luwin smiled softly at that, and put a hand on Bran's shoulder as he led him towards the tower.

"It is a sad fact of the world perhaps, but true all the same. No matter where we go, there are always people there trying to listen in."

Bran quirked an eyebrow at that.

"So we should always like someone is listening?"

At the old Maester looked contemplative, but finally shook his head.

"Not exactly. To go through one's life always looking over your shoulder is no way to live either. However, be aware of the possibility, always."

To Bran's reckoning, that was not an answer that made sense, but still he nodded and remained silent as he was led towards the library tower for midday lessons.

* * *

Regardless of what his Mother had counseled, after lunching in the Great Hall, Bran was determined to return to the bell tower, for Mother had let slip during the meal that the scouts had reported that Father and Robb and Jon were returning that very day, before night fell. When he had heard that, he had nearly hunched over into his porridge, shushing Rickon when the boy attempted to make conversation with him. He had remained dead silent, trying to keep Mother's attention off of him, lest she decide to confine him to his bedchambers or feed him to the hounds or make him take more lessons with the Maester or something equally dreadful. Thus he had watched with keen eyes as Mother took a demure Sansa and a protesting Arya out of the hall to their own lessons with Septa Mordane. He kept his gaze upon them all the way until they walked out the side door of the hall, and then he bolted, rushing past domestic servants for the main entrance.

From there he hurried towards the tower, not bothering to climb this time, merely ascending the stairs just as he had descended them. Now at the top he assumed a lookout position once more, only this time he looked out upon the vast expanse of the Wolfswood and the great wilderness it covered. He sat like this for perhaps an hour, slowly realizing he had no idea when exactly Father's group was returning, when he spotted it.

There, making their way out of the gloom of the forest was the Stark party, made recognizable by the direwolf banners of white and grey they carried. Beside those he could also see the white tree on black field of House Forrester. It was too far to make out for sure, but he thought he spotted Robb's red hair like his own next to the dark hair of Father and Jon at the head of the column. He squinted in confusion, for beside them rode who he assumed were Lord Forrester and his sons Ethan and Rodrik, but also two other strangers. As distant as he was, he could see that one of them wore a strange tall hat. Bran tilted his head to the side at that, puzzled, but that along with all his other questions were wiped away when he spotted something high above them.

It weaved and bobbed, like a leaf carried on a gust of wind, slipping in and out of the clouds. At first he thought it an eagle, but quickly realized that it was far too big for that. He tried to think of whatever else it could be, what flying creature got that big.

What flying creature…

... _DRAGONS!_

His eyes now wide with alarm, he looked around for something to alert father with, a horn or the like. But as he searched, the thing got closer, and he realized it was no dragon at all. For one, dragons did not have the hind legs of a lion, nor feathers. They did not have glimmering eagle like eyes, nor sharp beaks full of teeth.

For the second time in a moon's turn, Bran's mouth fell open. But these didn't exist, they were only in legends! Yet there it flew, and what was more he could see a man on its back, just like the Targaryens' and their dragons. Mayhaps this was what the Sign was about? Now Bran looked once more for a means of alerting the castle, as he was rather certain a griffon was a cause for such a clamour.

Finally he beheld it, and smiled, for it was something he wanted to do a for some time. Bran lifted the bell-mallet, and with all the force he could muster in his developing arms he smacked it into the great bronze bell, which rang out with a deafening tone. Then he struck again, and again, until all the castle was ringing with the smaller answers of the castle alarm bells. Bran now dropped the mallet and rushed once more for the door.

He was _not_ going to miss this for lessons!


	9. Robb III

**Author's Note: Again, reviews are appreciated, thank you**

ROBB III

Robb did not know what to make of these foreigners, exactly. During their very first meeting, they had threatened his life, that tall-hatted man who seemed to be their leader holding a beautifully engraved sword to his neck and threatening his life. Naturally, he was rather loath to trust these foreigners, and he knew that Father and Jon agreed with him.

All the same, that had not prevented the Klutzer fellow from wringing Father of nearly all the information he could, while revealing nearly nothing about himself or his people. Even when Father had finally put him on the defensive after that strange big dwarf fellow burst into the room, Klutzer had managed to put up a fine verbal fight, like the nobles who infested the royal court in King's Landing. Father had always mentioned that the ways of the southrons were rather foreign compared to the ways of the North, and Robb had gotten to see just how much they affected his father so. Theon may call him a wallflower for it, but he was secretly very pleased he never actually had to speak during the discussion, merely watch and try not to waver when the piercing gaze of Templar Klutzer came to rest upon him.

That smoking pipe he sucked from, too. It had taken all of his willpower to not cough when the smoke had been blown his way by the Templar, and he had seen that Jon's eyes were watering too. He very much envied Rodrik being allowed to go and contact Lord Forrester with the rest of the men. In all, managing to keep himself together under such a pressure was something he took no small amount of pride in.

Of course, he could not be blamed for losing all that composure when the griffon had come.

When he heard the screaming, and the beat of wings he had suspected at first that a great eagle flew overhead, and when he had turned to spot the creature he had nearly fallen off of his horse. It didn't help that the poor beast reared and bucked and tried its hardest to flee. It was incredible, something he would not forget until the day he died. A great big monster, a thing of flashing claws and beating wings, feathers of the deepest black and glimmering gold. It was magnificent, a thing out of the stories, like the great heroes of old. Some of the more quick-thinking of their party had drawn their weapons, as though mere sword and spear could slay _that_. But when that knight Heinrich had slung himself onto the creature, which indeed wore a saddle-like harness, that was when they all were speechless. Now he thanked the Old Gods that Father had urged for caution rather than immediate hostility to the men. If they had attacked these foreigners, Robb was rather certain he would be in the stomach of that great beast rather than riding down a forest path with his friends and kin.

When they had finally settled down later the day they departed from the tower, Father had immediately called together a meeting, consisting of himself, Robb, Jon, Rodrik, and Lord Forrester. They gathered close around a single fire, huddled towards the flames, away from the prying eyes of the foreigners. Father informed them, mostly for Lord Forrester's benefit, what exactly the foreigners had said, what little it was. They discussed the griffon, the titles and appearances of each member of the foreign band, what their possible roles could play. That they had knights was obvious enough, with the man named Heinrich that even now slumbered curled with his griffon like it were some great big cat. Klutzer was awake, and that surprised Robb not at all, for he seemed to be a supremely paranoid figure. His title of "Templar" suggested he was some sort of holy man perhaps, but his armaments were like none he had ever seen a septon wear. Then again, the only experience that Robb had with the Faith was old Septon Chayle and Septa Mordane. Mother had wanted him to receive lessons on the Seven, reasoning that he was as Tully as he was Stark, but they had mostly ceased years back, and Robb never really payed much attention to them to begin with. In any case, the veritable armory that he carried around in that long jacket showed he was no mere man of the cloth.

Perhaps he was a militant of his faith? But what faith was that? They mentioned being servants of Sigmar, but who was this Sigmar? God or man? In Westeros, gods did not have such personal names, but perhaps it was different for these folk. And in any case, they mentioned quite specifically that these lands belonged to a House Todbringer and to an Emperor named Karl Franz, neither of whom they had heard of.

While Robb had payed attention at least to his lessons on heraldry, they helped him not in identifying the magnificent armour that the knight Heinrich wore. It was an exquisite thing, wrought of glittering steel and engraved with shining gold, finely shaped so as to provide maximum protection to the wearer. All on the surface were inscribed skulls and strange fat-armed crosses, alongside slips of parchment sealed on the armor with wax, parchment that seemed to have lines of scripture written on them, though Robb had never gotten close enough to read them further. But most startling to the Stark band was the symbol that was not only obvious on Heinrich, but also featured prominently on Klutzer's garb. A twin-tailed comet, just like he and his brothers had seen that fateful night. If there was any doubt these people were related to the Sign, that destroyed it utterly.

Father had mentioned that it was a suit of armour that would likely drive a lesser lord utterly bankrupt if it were commissioned here, and yet they got the sense that Heinrich was not a great lord among his people. That he seemed to be subservient to Klutzer proved that. At least, for Heinrich it proved that. The other man, the so called Magister Johann, he was perhaps the most difficult to figure out for the Stark party. Robb had heard a hundred names given for the stranger by Father's men; maester, scholar, wiseman, wizard. Father had shrugged off the last of those, not wanting to insult the foreigners by assuming that the robed figure was some sort of mage, an absurd idea.

Robb had to admit though, he certainly looked the part. His swirling robes of midnight blue and rich burgundy appeared impressive enough during the day, but at night… it was like nothing he'd seen before. Then the colors seemed to dance, and the stars and comets woven of silk-of-silver caught the light of the stars and the moon and glimmered with an ethereal beauty. It seemed almost impossible, and the light was such that the Magister did not require a campfire. Instead, he looked up towards the sky, pulling out a small tube-like device startlingly similar to the Myrish lens that Maester Luwin kept, used to study the heavens. On the occasions that Johann put down the lens, it almost seemed like his eyes of midnight blue sparkled like the stars he studied, to Robb's reckoning.

These "Imperials" as the men called them were a strange people indeed, and Father wanted them watched very closely.

That proved to be rather difficult, however, for none of the men, Robb and Jon included, wanted to be near the frosty glare of Klutzer. Nor did they want to be near the snapping beak and clacking growls of the griffon, either. Gods, but it was fearsome, a killer through and through, with those eyes that looked at everyone as though they were a potential meal. Everyone but Heinrich, that is. With him the beast was as friendly as a kitten.

One thing all three men had in common, however, was that that acted extremely on edge the entire trip through the forest, and not just because they suspected the Stark's might slit their throats as they slept. He had seen on more than one occasion an Imperial staring into the forest, a look of apprehension on their face, as though they expected some monster to come barreling out of the underbrush.

 _As if there isn't already a monster here now_.

Robb had to glance up at that, towards the clouds where the griffon wheeled and circled their group like a vulture over a carcass. That comparison made him uneasy. They were now reaching the edge of the Wolfswood, and Winterfell wasn't far at all. Jon rode beside him, and spoke up for the first time in about an hour.

"Makes you uneasy too? Feels like it'll swoop down on us any second."

Jon stared up at the beast too, and then down at the rigidly upright posture of Klutzer ahead of them, his head pointed straight ahead, though occasionally making a gesture of the hand as he spoke to Johann beside him on his garron.

"Though not half as scary as that Klutzer bastard, eh bastard? Might be you two will be friends. He's so solemn, he could nearly be your father, if we didn't know Lord Stark was. Maybe he's your mother, just hiding his cunt under that beaten leather!"

Theon chuckled at his own humour, Rodrik Forrester rubbing his head uncomfortably. Having gotten to know him better, Robb knew that Rodrik was a good man at heart, and had come to be rather discomforted by the blatant hostility that Theon sometimes showed towards the natural born son of Eddard Stark. Or perhaps he was just discomforted by the idea of mocking the dreaded Templar when he was so nearby. For his part Jon bore the jests in silence, solemn and grim as always.

Suddenly, like a swimmer breaking through the surface, they came out of the Wolfswood, the plain that surrounded Winterfell on every side opening up in front of them. There ahead stood the ancient fortress, as grey and foreboding as it ever had been, all grey stone and closely huddled buildings.

But to a Stark, it was home.

A great bell began to ring, no doubt the castle being alerting of their imminent arrival. He and Jon hurried their horses forward, coming to make pace with Father and Lord Forrester. Beside them rode the two Imperials. Robb covertly inspected their faces, hoping to satisfy a boyish need to see awe or at least an impressed look on the stranger's faces as they finally saw his ancestral home.

Unfortunately, he got neither. Klutzer was as impassive as ever, merely raising an eyebrow and casting a speculative eye towards the gates and towers. Robb suspected they may be sizing them up, trying to guess escape routes and blindspots. Why he might need such knowledge, Robb shuddered to think.

Johann on the other hand merely looked towards the higher tower, narrowing his eyes as if trying to gage something. His mouth silently worked, like he was reciting his thoughts to himself.

Together they all rode, the bells of Winterfell tolling all the while, and a great horn sounded as they approached the Hunter's Gate, which opened up to their arrival. Beneath their hooves the cobblestones clacked, as they passed over the moat between the outer wall and the inner. They came upon the inner courtyard, where the stables were, and he saw Mother standing there with his younger siblings, though Bran was curiously absent. All the same, Father rode ahead and shouted to the men manning the walls.

"Hold your fire! There is a griffon coming, it means us no harm, put away your bows and arrows!"

At that the guardsmen, who were mercifully few, looked at their liege with puzzlement clear on their face, but they nonetheless obeyed. Not a second too soon, for now that damned madman Imperial swept over head with his griffon, which screeched and howled all the while. Mother turned white, and instinctively grabbed Rickon and Sansa, as though hiding them in her skirts would keep them safe from a griffon. Arya, who was out of reach, stepped forward, her face alight with wonder. No fear, naturally.

With great crash, the griffon touched down, great muscled legs absorbing the mighty blow. Once and then twice the wings beat, washing them all with a wind like that of a storm. It reared and snorted, tilting its head too and fro like Robb had seen falcons do. It was almost absurd similar the action was, despite the enormous differences between the beasts. Finally, it calmed, and Heinrich the foreign knight clambered down, stretching like he had merely just had a brisk ride through the meadow. He pulled off his elaborate plumed helm, revealing a handsome visage, all sharp angles and tanned skin, with two glimmering light green eyes set in it. Atop his head was a nest of closely cropped black hair. He smiled brightly and looked about, the same amused look on his face as when they met the griffon for the first time. He saw Father frown beside him, no doubt upset that the man could find merriment when he had just scared poor Mother half to death.

Mother was not to be deterred, however, for with a sideways glance at the the now reclining griffon she hurried to Father as he dismounted. They shared a passionate embrace, kissing him deeply despite the good-natured smiles of the Stark guardsmen around them. She then hugged Robb closely, and finally remembered her courtesies, offering a cordial greeting to Lord Forrester and his sons, who accepted graciously. She appeared confused when turning to the strangers, looking to Father, who introduced them for her.

"Templar Klutzer, Magister Johann, this is my wife, the Lady Catelyn Stark."

For his part, Klutzer was polite in his acceptance, if rather cold. _What a bloody surprise_. Johann merely inclined his head and smiled, thanking her warmly. Now Heinrich strode over to them, his helmet held in the crook of his arm. He knelt deeply and kissed Mother's hand, his manners as fine and proper as Sansa's, and his voice was respectful as he introduced himself.

"My lady, I have the honor of being Sir Heinrich Alweis of the Grand Order of the Reiksguard, in service to Templar Klutzer here on order from His Imperial Majesty himself. I humbly apologize for any fright I may have caused in my arrival. I assure you, Victory here is as peaceable as a hen around the pure and noble."

She was taken aback by the greeting, and with a look towards Father that no doubt meant _you will be explaining this later,_ she thanked him in turn, and offered them the customary bread and salt. Or at least custom in Westeros, for Heinrich appeared puzzled for a moment but quickly waved it away, accepting on behalf of the Imperial group.

Hullen strode up, and giving a curt bow to his liege, spoke now to Heinrich.

"Ah, Ser Heinrich, I don't mean to bother, but I've no experience with the handling of bloody griffons, if you'll pardon my language."

Heinrich laughed then, and clasped the stablemaster on the shoulder.

"Worry not, good man. Victory can watch himself, he'll likely make his own shelter."

Now Heinrich glanced about, studying the towers. He pointed at the Broken Tower in the distance.

"Is that uninhabited? If so, I believe that may serve as a fine roost for Victory"

Father and Mother shared a look, and nodded their assent, explaining that the Tower had been long abandoned.

Heinrich once more thanked them, and was introduced to the rest of the Stark family by Mother. He gave Sansa as heartfelt and elaborate a greeting as he gave Mother, and she blushed a dark red when his lips touched her dainty knuckle. Arya for her part rolled her eyes at the display, and Rickon excitedly asked if he could ride the griffon too. Mother quickly shushed him, clearly terrified by the idea.

Just as Robb began looking about, searching for his younger brother, there he spotted him, deftly making his way down the bell tower beside them, as sure footed as always. Fortunately, he made it to the ground before Father or Mother noticed him and chided him once more for his climbing. He shyly walked over, and Mother finally caught sight of him finally, introducing him to the Imperial group. As Bran greeted them with admirably grown-up grace, Robb noticed the strangest thing.

That Magister Johann was staring at Bran, his bulging eyes from his head, as though he had spotted something astounding.

Robb frowned at that. Most strange indeed.


	10. Klaus III

**Author's note: Here's another Klaus chapter, finally. Please, keep those reviews rolling in. Thanks!**

KLAUS III

 _Counting boxes, what bloody good fun_

Klaus huffed angrily then, for counting boxes was not in fact his idea of good fun. He was now stopped in the gloom of the armory, counting stores and taking stock. It was hard work, monotonous and boring, and something he felt to be a waste of time better spent drinking. At least in that regard, it wasn't all that different from anything else he did in the Emperor's armies.

For the third time in an hour, Klaus wished they had brought a halfling with them on their expedition. Those bloody little creatures were made for taking inventory, counting foodstuffs was their idea of a good time, besides fucking and eating till they burst. Though that would also likely mean their stocks of food would be gone by now. As it was, they had enough for about a month, though he hoped that Master Klutzer and that prissy knight Heinrich might negotiate more food for them from this Lord Stark. Furthermore, the initial armory he had stumbled upon on their first arrival had turned out to be far more extensive than they assumed, with many barrels of all manner of military supply filling most of them, weapons and armor the rest. Naturally, Gorgi had immediately judged them to be inferior human craftsmanship, and had set about melting them down and crafting them anew. As with all dwarf smiths, his efforts were slowly and supremely meticulous, but without a doubt the implements he produced were of a phenomenal quality by the standards of men, both lighter and stronger than any man-forged steel. What's more, Gorgi had eyed his work with disapproval when he had finished the first batch, glimmering like a Arabyan treasure hoard, muttering that if he hadn't rushed he could've done a much finer job.

Klaus once more thanked Ulric and Sigmar for sending a dwarf unto them in this new world, and a Runesmith no less. He admittedly did not know what that meant, but by the reactions of the rest of their band he assumed that it was something spectacular indeed.

Likely had something to do with runes, hence the name.

As for the dwarf, he looked like any other stunty to Klaus, but then he was a hardly an expert on stunties, the most experience being when a dwarf back in Carroburg had to measure him up when he crafted the fine dwarfen steel that all Carroburg Greatswords were clad with and armed with. Another thing he was eternally grateful for. If he strained, he could hear the great bearded fellow even now.

*CLANG* *CLANG* *CLANG*

Just as it had been for hours. Apparently time spent in the forge was just as much leisure for Gorgi as it was work, for he seemed not to tire. It had been rather miraculous, how they had put together such a fine little forge with merely a few bricks and some mortar, yet as always dwarfen craftsmanship had made something great out of little. To be honest, this entire tower was a little repository of wonders, like the rumors he had heard from gossiping State Troopers around the campfire about a great hoard of evil artifacts kept hidden secure in Altdorf. Like a good Imperial citizen, he always dismissed such thoughts out of hand. Anything else would be dangerously close to heresy.

Thought of that made his thoughts wander to the arcane device kept hidden in the armory, the same he had laid eyes upon when he had first fell into this godsforsaken pit of deadly objects. That great monstrosity of glittering copper and shining sapphires. What had the Celestial Mage called it? A Celestial Hurricanum, that was it. He had no idea what that was, either. But by the shocked expression on the witch hunter's face when he beheld it for the first time, it was nothing to laugh at. Not that there was much to laugh about, here. For once, he was thankful he had no lady friend waiting for him back home. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but he doubted whichever flowery sop who'd thought of that had their particular situation in mind when he had.

Finally, he finished his tally, and filled up the small ledger he had been carrying around with their current manifest, all nice and tidy for Klutzer's return, just the way he liked it. He made his way back up to the main portion of the building, ambling over to his own quarters in the dormitory section of the tower. It was a small thing, only a bed and a window currently, but it was home. As a whole, it was odd how relatively clean and bright the inside of the tower was, at least compared to its outside appearance. He attributed that to some sort of magical charm. You never knew with the damned wizards. Klaus chanced a look out the window, into the bright world beyond. There, sure enough, Gorgi stood, stretching and taking a long swig out of an ale horn after a day's labor at the forge. His arms and face were black with soot, the leather smith's apron similarly darkened. He looked contemplative, and stared into the forest beyond the small meadow where their humble abode was located.

Klutzer knew just what he was thinking of, though he was nowhere near him. He was wondering the same thing they had all wondered about this strange new world.

Why was it so damn _safe?_

There had been no deranged cultists (much to the disappointment of Klutzer, who likely longed for such a fine diversion as slaying the heretic), no Orcs, not even any Beastmen. He might be convinced they were merely watching and biding their time for an attack, had the Jade Mage Jakob not gone into the forest and searched the area around them with great haste.

Nothing. Not so much as a pathetic Gor to give him any trouble. He was still out there, having left immediately after reporting to them a day ago. He had not accepted any provisions, stating that Taal would provide all he needed. Gorgi and Klaus had shared a look then, but done nothing. With the witch hunter gone, they were hardly in a position to make a Wizard of the Orders Magical do anything.

He had mentioned Taal, the Old World God of the Trees, the Rivers, and all the Wild Places. Husband of Rhya, Goddess of the Spring Rains, Fertility, and Good Harvest. They were the gods of his ancestors, of himself, and his potential children after, him, Sigmar willing. They were the gods of all his folk, watching over them since time immemorial. He may be a stranger in a strange place, but the thought that his gods watched over him gave him a measure of comfort. Subconsciously he made the sign of the twin-tailed comet over his heart. In the end, Sigmar protects, as always.

As if agreeing with his sentiment, his stomach grumbled then, reminding him he had not eaten since breaking his fast with some hard boiled eggs and dried beef. He gathered his sword from where he laid it to rest by the door, and trotted down the stairs, towards the empty room he had assumed a kitchen and thus treated as such, for a small hearth blazed in the center of the room, with a few cabinets beside it full of vegetables and herbs. It seemed Jakob was a bit of a chef, according to his opulently appointed brother. Unfortunately, Klaus was not so skilled, and so had to make do with tossing some carrots into the bubbling cauldron of stew on the fire and stirring in some beef. He tasted the broth, and gave it a hum of approval. Strangely enough, in many ways his newfound lifestyle put him in mind some of his time spent at a boarding school in Altdorf.

He frowned at that memory. One thing he had always regretted was telling his mates in Carroburg that he had attained any sort of higher education than basic literacy. A good deal of them were orphans, or at least had lived rough on the streets for much of their lives. It was a part of why they had such a great killer's instinct. So to hear him say that his childhood was spent learning his maths and basic alchemy from a graduate of the Altdorf Academies was a subject of constant amusement from them, those rough men who had spent their childhoods stealing and fighting. They never really cared that he dropped out anyway, that he had felt a yearning to serve in the armies of Sigmar, rather than to receive a degree and live a quiet life as a scholar or a bureaucrat in some stuffy building somewhere. He was proud of his choice, and of how far he had risen, but he would be lying if he said that the disappointment in his father's eyes when he had informed him of his decision did not still haunt him somewhat. He laughed then, a dry and bitter thing that conveyed no humour at all.

He was startled out of his recollections by the rumbling dwarf voice to his right.

"Sorry to interrupt yer' deranged chuckles, _umgi_ , but I thought to inform you that that green Wizard has returned. He's waitin' out by the forge."

Klaus nodded at him.

"Well, can't keep His Magicalness waiting, can we? Keep an eye on the soup for me, eh Okrisson?"

He slipped pass Gorgi's impressive bulk and out of the kitchens, towards the two thick cloth flaps they had hung to serve as a temporary door after Klaus had kicked in the last one. New hinges were unfortunately rather low on the list of things for Gorgi to fashion for them.

It was crisp and chilly out, though the sun shone brightly. His feet crackled through the thick grasses of the meadow as he made his away around the towering structure. Sure enough, there was Jakob, leaning against their little makeshift forge, looking surprisingly neat for having spent most of the last week in the wilds. Jakob turned to him, and stood up straight, waving him over.

"Ah, Mister Edelmann, how fare you?"

Klaus raised an eyebrow at that.

"Fine, sir. I'm not the one who's spent the entire week in the forest, after all."

Jakob laughed at that, leaned in close then.

"Tell me Klaus, do you keep to Taal?"

Jakob frowned at that.

"As much as any pious man of the Empire. But he's not my chosen god, that'd be either Sigmar or Ulric."

Some thought keeping both Sigmar and Ulric strange, but not Klaus. He had picked up the veneration of the God of Man in Altdorf, but never forgot his Middenlander roots.

Jakob nodded sagely, and pointed towards the forest.

"Then I suppose you should follow me. I've found something rather… extraordinary."

To be entirely honest, Klaus imagined what a wizard considered extraordinary was likely to be considered by the average Imperial to be merely extra heretical. All the same, he hesitantly accepted, following the Jade Wizard as he made a brisk pace into the forest. It was dull going at first, all the same dirt and wood and rocks that he had seen so much of coming to the tower. Albeit without the constant pervasive danger of the Drakwald forest, but still. Soon, however, he noticed a change in the scenery. Beams of sunlight piercing through the canopy above became less and less, dimmed by the thickening of the leaves above. Smaller and younger growth gave way to true giants, great elder trees that had clearly been here since time immemorial. Their trunks were twisted and gnarled like the wrinkles on the face of an old man. He felt the air grow thick and damp as though held down by the weight of the centuries, felt the ground under his feet grasp at his boots with long-settled mud, as though petulant that it was being disturbed by the scuttling of men. Rocks overgrown with moss, lichen and vines hanging low around him. This was Old Woods, the sort of place where his earliest ancestors held their ancient rituals to the gods during the dawn of time, when the world was yet untamed and untainted. His spine tingled, his throat scratched, yet he clamped down hard on the building cough. To break the silence of the Old Wood was akin to blasphemy against Ancient Taal, and he was no godless man. All the while Jakob walked, his head unbowed by the trees, like a guest who was truly more akin to a friend compelled to observe pleasantries demanded by long tradition. He was clearly in his element. Ever onward they strode, until just when Klaus was going to finally risk asking where they were, and then he saw _it_.

A great tree, with bark as white as bone and leaves red as blood. If the other trees were old, this one was primordial. It was situated on a hill, thrust up towards the sky like an offering to some celestial deity, all other trees keeping their distance, respecting the power of the elder among elders. Up and up it twisted, with red leaves on white limbs that grabbed at the blue of the heavens, like skeletal hands grasping at some long forgotten treasure. Klaus could do naught but gape, for at the center of the titan was a face, frowning and furious. It was so well carved, so life-like that Klaus more than half expected it to began shouting at them, raging at their intrusion into its thousand-year solitude. He was so astounded he nearly forget the customary Taalite salute, and upon doing so immediately slapped his leg, chest, and then arm in quick succession, that ancient sign of root, trunk and branch. He prayed that would be enough to appease the Green God, for now. Klaus looked towards Heinrich then, wordlessly asking for an explanation, his look of awe doing all the talking for him.

Jakob grinned, a look of barely hidden enthusiasm and wonder shining in his forest-green eyes.

"Truth be told, I'm not sure. What I do now, however, is that it is a veritable wellspring of Life Magic, as strong as the Sacred Grove inside the Jade College. I've spent an entire night here, scrying and trying to speak with Taal. He hears and responds, and yet it is not just him. I hear other beings, circling like animals in the dark."

His grin disappeared then, replaced with a look of deeply troubled reverie.

"They have no names nor faces, always keeping away. Yet I sense power in them, and I can sense how ancient they are. I suspect they may be the native gods of this land, for they seemed shocked and agitated when the light of Taal shined, as the power of the Green God drove these native gods from the trees. To them, we were strange newcomers, Taal and I both. I admit, it makes little sense, even to me. When they scattered, it was like the squalling of an angry raven flock. I was very glad indeed to have the protection of Taal, then."

Jakob shuddered in fear, which in turn made Klaus want to scream internally. It was well known that whatever made a wizard sweat in fear was likely to make other men soil themselves in terror.

A thousand questions raced through his mind then, but they were all quieted by the low growl that drifted into his ears from the encroaching timber around them. They both turned instantly, like their necks were spring-loaded, just in time to see a mountain of snarling and snapping fur slowly amble into the clearing, eyeing them with glowing orbs of amber. A wolf, and likely the largest wolf he had ever seen before in his life. A direwolf then, like those that prowled the farthest reaches of the forest, and in distant Norsca, that inhospitable and frigid land.

As he got a better look at the murderous creature, he thought to himself, _she-wolf_.

That he knew for certain, for this wolf was clearly and very visibly pregnant, breasts hanging low, full of milk for pups.

An entire litter of which growing in her enormous belly.

She sniffed at them then, her eyes shifting for an instant to look at something in the hill beside them. Klaus very slowly turned to look for himself, and cursed silently when he did. There in the side of the hill was a large hole, just big enough for an expectant wolf-mother. Her bloody den, in other words. He turned back just as slowly and gulped.

He whispered his prayers to Ulric, just as he had as a boy. Hopefully the Wolf-God watched over them here, too.


	11. Catelyn I

**AUTHORS NOTE:** Please accept my apologies for the delay on this chapter. Things were really hectic with finals week and I just couldn't find the time to write. Thanks for the patience, and please remember to leave a review, if you would.

CATELYN I

Even when she was only a girl, Catelyn had found solace in the Seven, some small measure of peace in even the most trying times. When her mother had died, when Father and Uncle Brynden had left to fight the War of the Ninepenny Kings, when word reached Riverrun that Brandon had been murdered by the Mad King, when Ned left to fight with Robert during the Rebellion. Every time had seen her keep her composure under stress that was enough to break many people. She liked to believe that the gods were a large part of that, they have been watching over her and her family, and that they even now continued to do so. For all of her hardship, she had been blessed in the end, with a husband she loved with all her heart and five beautiful children that made her more proud than she could ever put into words. That was what drove her to be eternally vigilant in ensuring she performed the proper incantations, the proper rites, all that which had been drilled into her by her septa since she was a little girl. Even now in the bright and cheery midday, or at least as bright and cheery as Winterfell got, she preferred to take a small respite from the day's responsibility of being the Lady Stark.

That was why she kneeled now before the small altars of her gods, in the solemnity of the small sept that Ned had built for her, when their marriage was still new and uncertain. It was a humble thing, grey stone like the rest of Winterfell. Compared to the sept of Riverrun or really any sizeable southron castle it was tiny.

It was her favorite place in Winterfell, an eternal reminder of what they had built, her and Ned.

She had her head lowered in thanks to the Seven, and now raised it, looking about at the carved likenesses of the gods. They were rough and hurried, the product of a mason who was of the North and likely had few notions of what the Seven were often depicted as in the septs of the south. There they were larger than life, the Warrior with chiseled and handsome features, the Maiden unnaturally beautiful as no mortal woman could be. Here though, they merely looked like people, like any she would see in Wintertown or one of the servants that hurried through the halls of Winterfell on one task or another.

When Catelyn had toured the sept for the first time, she could not help but laugh a bit when she saw the portrayal of the Smith. It was the spitting image, in her opinion, of Ned, all grim face and solemn features, as though the Smith was performing some grave task rather than merely beating some metal with a hammer. Ned had looked shocked, and worried, perhaps thinking that she found the whole sept amusingly pathetic. When she had hurriedly corrected his misreading of the situation, he had laughed too, that short quiet sound that she heard so little and yet had come to cherish so dearly. Catelyn liked to believe that was the start of their love, the point in which they began the transformation from awkward strangers into truly husband and wife. She could not help but smile and laugh to herself at such a happy memory, but was interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared behind.

Perhaps a bit more quickly than was proper, she whipped her head about to regard the intruder. Septon Chayle stood there, a smile on his face. Catelyn turned a light shade of red at that. _He must think me half a madwoman, laughing to myself all alone in the sept_. All the same, she rose gracefully and gently dusted off the front of her skirts, her face returning to the neutral look that she often schooled it into when she acted in her official capacity as the Lady of Winterfell. Septon Chayle inclined his head towards her.

"My lady, forgive me for the intrusion. I was merely going to attend to the Seven, clean the statues, just my daily duty to the Faith."

"Certainly, Septon. I must be going about my duties as well. Good day."

She nodded to him, and moved towards the door, pushing open the door, a heavy slab of dark pine and wrought iron. Catelyn strode out into the brisk air of the North, involuntarily shivering a bit at the bite of the cold. Even after all these years, she still didn't have the same resistance to the cold that her husband or even her children did, who could frolic for hours out in the chill and seem entirely unaffected. That never stopped her from worrying after their health, though Ned assured her that in 8,000 years of Starks, not one had ever gotten a chill from playing in the cold. She had snorted at that in a most unladylike fashion, but relented, and her children had been practically living in the wilds for much of their lives.

She made her way towards Maester Luwin's tower, for now at midday was when Bran was often at his lessons, and she liked to visit and make sure he payed attention as she was given correspondence by the old maester. Or at least, that was what she let him think. More truthfully, she merely enjoyed seeing her brave and clever little boy, and Catelyn knew this was a time she could know with certainty where he was, considering he spent the rest of his day exploring some distant corner of Winterfell no one had seen in decades. That is, when he was not training with Ser Rodrik to become the greatest knight who had ever lived. Suddenly, Catelyn felt not so cold, warmed as she was by the thoughts of her family.

That feeling did not last, for as she passed below the Broken Tower, she nearly jumped back when she heard a hiss like a snake. Her head snapped upwards, and surely enough there was settled among the cracked ruin that monster of talons and feathers. It lazily gazed down at her, like some great cat, one paw sprawled out in front of it, slowly scoring its wicked talons against the grey stone so loudly she could hear the scratching from the ground. It tilted its beaked face, clicking with what she thought might be inquisitorial noises. The great beast shifted, the downy head coming to rest on the outstretched paw looking now perversely like a wily old tom that had taken up residence on a particularly high shelf, rather than an enormous griffon.

Gods, a griffon!

Catelyn had never thought it possible. Like any in Westeros, she had heard tale after tale of the dragons of old, but never a griffon! Those existed only in legend and in heraldry, and yet here she was being sized up by one, like a lion to a deer. That comparison made her shiver even more violently, and she speeded her haste, nearly running to escape the gaze of the creature.

She had been livid, to be entirely honest, when Ned had conceded to the strangers request to use the Broken Tower like a rookery. In fact, Catelyn liked the strangers with their strange names not very much at all. That knight Heinrich seemed polite enough, but his two companions unsettled her. For the tall one with the ludicrous hat named Klutzer the reason was simple enough, for his eyes were cold and hateful in a way that made her skin crawl. For the other one, the well-dressed Johann, she could not place so easily. He merely unnerved her, with his eyes of unnaturally deep blue that shined like the stars. More than once, she had caught him staring at Bran, a look of alternating disbelief and deep contemplation on his weathered features, but had always managed to avert his gaze in time to avoid suspicion. That made Catelyn all the more suspicious.

On the night of his return with the strangers, she had lain next to him in her bedchambers, and allowed him to explain to her what he knew of them. Unfortunately, that had turned out to be not much at all. She loved Ned with all her heart, but he was simply not made for sniffing out other people's hidden agenda. He had turned to her then, and she could see the uncertainty in his grey eyes. That had made her heart quicken, for there were few things that could visibly shake Eddard Stark.

Catelyn supposed that a griffon would be one of those things.

Finally, she came upon the turreted tower, the home of every maester of Winterfell. She took her skirts in hand and ascended the steps, only a bit out of breath when she reached the top. Catelyn knew she was no longer a young woman, but it was good to know she was not going hunched and grey just yet. She pushed open the door to reveal, sure enough, her darling son and the wizened maester, both leaned over a map of Westeros. Both looked up at her arrival.

"Good day, my lady."

"Hello, mother."

She smiled warmly at them both.

"Good day to you, maester. And to you too, sweetling! I trust you are paying close attention to your lessons?

Bran scrunched his face up a bit at that. Catelyn knew he considered himself too old to be referred to as "sweetling". That was part of why she said it, in fact.

Maester Luwin spoke up for him then.

"He is doing admirably as always, my lady. In fact, I think we can end his lessons for the day. You are dismissed, my little lord of Stark."

Bran rose then, and scurried towards the door, no doubt eager to watch his older brother spar with Theon. _And the bastard_. She frowned at that thought, only nodding when Bran said his goodbyes. She turned to Maester Luwin then, whose face now showed apprehension. Catelyn raised an eyebrow.

"Is something amiss, maester?"

Luwin slowly shook his head.

"No, my lady. Merely strange tidings from the Wall"

He handed her a small slip of paper, no doubt one he had just received by raven that day.

Catelyn sat as she read the contents. It was indeed strange tidings, reports of strange green lights being spotted by patrols of black brothers, of the wildlings gathering in greater and greater numbers, of the King-beyond-the-Wall raising a great army. Also mentioned was that a deserter had recently been spotted fleeing south, named Gared, and that they should be on the lookout for him. At the bottom was signed _Benjen_.

For her husband's own brother to write them was unusual indeed. She looked up to Luwin.

"Why does the Night's Watch write us of this? And why Benjen?

Luwin only gave a sad shake of his head.

"I fear I do not know, my lady. Perhaps Lord Stark would know better?"

"Gods, I certainly hope so. I shall take the letter to him. Thank you, maester."

"I am glad to be of service, my lady."

Catelyn hurried out of the tower, through the door and into the courtyard. She was not sure where she might find her husband, and so stopped to look about and perhaps chance spotting him. She saw Hullen over at the stables, brushing some pretty mare. There was Mikken, driving a cart full of ore towards the forge. But no Ned.

Catelyn frowned, but then she heard faintly the clamor of blades clashing. That would be Robb and the bastard, then. Thinking of no better place, she made her way over to the training yard.

Sure enough, there on the walkways above the training yard stood Ned, yet he was not watching his sons. No, those three stood at the side of the yard, red and dark brown hair similarly mussed and damp with sweat, and all three had blue and grey eyes fixed on the center of the yard, for there stood the two strangers, Klutzer and Heinrich. Those two circled each other, swords drawn, apparently in a the midst of a spar. Their choice of weapons were very different, with the tall Klutzer wielding a beautifully engraved thin sword, and she was reminded of the tales she had heard of the bravos of Braavos, who were armed similarly. Heinrich for his part was armed like many a knight, sword and shield in hand. All the same, his armor was magnificent, adorned with glimmering gold and handsome steel, embossed all about with symbols of skulls and crosses and comets. It all seemed rather grim to her reckoning, and she could think of no house that took a skull like that as its sigil, much less a twin-tailed comet. _A twin-tailed comet… just like what they say about the Sign._

Catelyn moved to her husband's side, taking hold of his arm as it leaned against the wooden railing. He looked to her and smiled, before turning back to the spectacle before them.

A spectacle it was, for both fighters quickly leapt into action, Heinrich with the first moves, striding forward for a simple swipe that would all the same have taken off an arm had Klutzer not deftly sidestepped the blow. Taking advantage of the miss, Klutzer rushed forward, aiming his blade directly for the weak point at Heinrich's neck, which was only narrowly blocked by the quickly raised shield of Heinrich. Klutzer did not relent however, and continued a series of precise strikes that Heinrich struggled to parry and block. Finally, Heinrich took advantage of a slightly awkward jab by Klutzer and redoubled his attacks, now being only narrowly dodged by Klutzer.

Catelyn would be the first to admit that she was not extremely proficient in matters of war, but all the same she thought that both men seemed extraordinarily skilled. A quick glance at Ned's reaction confirmed her suspicions, for even his solemn features clearly had an impressed look on them. And if Ned was impressed… she gazed down at the other spectators. Yes, the lads were in awe, looking far younger than their years with their mouths hanging open like that.

Faster and faster came the strikes and the parries, until finally Heinrich had his sword at the neck of Klutzer. That seemed to not be the end, however, for Klutzer similarly had some strange tube of wood and steel pointed at the knights head, that he apparently had pulled from some jacket pocket. They stood in silence, until at once both men put down their weapons. Heinrich pulled off his helm and shook the hand of his grim partner.

"Well, sir, it seems the tales regarding the skill of Sigmar's Templars are well placed indeed."

Heinrich for his part seemed not very upset that he had not pulled through entirely victorious.

Klutzer snorted at that.

"I would have hoped I had proved that beyond a doubt at the tower. All the same, I must also congratulate you on your performance, Sir Alweis."

He extended a hand in salute, which Heinrich accepted with a winning grin. Together they strode off the yard, leaving the Stark boys gaping after them.

Catelyn turned to her husband then.

"Luwin just received a letter from the Wall sent for you, from your brother"

A brown eyebrow shot up at that.

"From Benjen? What did he say?"

She merely handed him the parchment, and stood silently as he read it.

"Aye, the parts about Mance Rayder and the wildlings I can understand. But what's this about green lights? And a deserter escaped? I shall have to send out some patrols to search for him"

She smiled at that.

"Perhaps you can put the strangers to work, have them rouse that monstrosity that has made its lair in the Broken Tower and use it to search for the man."

She had meant it as a jest, but Ned looked somber at her words.

"Aye, mayhaps. I know it has been merely a day, but I must truly speak with them. And this time get something concrete out of them"

Now Ned looked pained, and Catelyn knew it was because he felt more than a bit ashamed at being so deftly outfoxed by this Klutzer.

"Ned, don't take it too hard. I do not love you because you are a snake. You are a wolf, _my_ wolf". She leaned forwards and kissed him, knowing that nobody was there to see.

Ned smiled after and leaned against the railing.

"I hope so. Though I doubt a wolf would be much good against that creature of theirs"

Now it was Catelyn's turn to look somber at a poor jest.


	12. Klaus IV

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Again, sorry for delays. This time it was the holidays, you know how it is. Next chapter shall be introducing the "dark presence", and take note of what chapter number that will be ;). As always, please review!**

KLAUS IV

Nights like this, where the shining silver moon was full in the sky, were the kind that were often spoken of as being holy to Ulric, back home in Carroburg. Situated on the River Reik, right on the border with Reikland, it was a shining example of order and prosperity within the Empire. Just as impressive as any similar size city in the wealthy Reikland, at least. When he was but a lad, his parents, educated folk though they were, had taught him that Reiklanders were all shifty eyed scum with shit for honour. That was an opinion shared by nearly all Middenlanders, rich and poor. As he grew older and ever so wiser, he learned from his time in the Reikland state-troops that not all Reiklanders were so bad, just a tad arrogant and self-righteous. All the same, it made Klaus more pleased than he cared to admit that the followers of the Wolf-God could build anything as impressive as the glimmering spires and imposing temples of the South. Even more so, he remained proud of the wolf-blood that ran in his veins just as it ran in all Middenlanders, descended as they were from the mighty Teutogens of antiquity, who bent the knee to none but Sigmar himself.

So, naturally, he felt more than a bit invigorated by the glare of ethereal white from up high. Or perhaps it was the chill in the air, that put him in mind of a midnight prowl through the woods. Most likely, it was the heavily pregnant direwolf that now loped beside him, between himself and the Jade Wizard Jakob.

There were few things less extreme that would be enough to convince a good law-abiding Imperial to go out traipsing into the forest in the dead of night, full moon or no. In the Empire, that would be tantamount to suicide, given the hordes of all manner of foul abomination that stalked the shadows of the great trees, beastmen and orc, werewolf and wraith, all invigorated by the sickly glow of the Chaos moon Morrslieb. Yet this was not the Empire, and the false moon did not shine here.

Here was a whole new world, one similar but unlike the one they had left behind them. Many things he had taken for granted his whole life, most notably the danger posed by the world around him, were being shaken. Yet for all that, his faith in the gods of his folk remained unshakeably. For that, at least, he had been rewarded. He palmed now the small iron wolf-head charm affixed to the straps of his armor, right above the plate that covered left side.

Above his heart.

It was a minor thing, a trinket really, or so he had assumed his entire life. When he had left his home to learn the ways of the learned men, his father had gifted him it. It had belonged to a hundred generations of Edelmann menfolk, supposedly all the way to when his earliest ancestors were still fur-clad savages, taking up the axe and the hammer to slay the Orcish hordes in the name of the Wolf-God. Every one had affixed it to his person, and had enjoyed the favor of fearsome Ulric, as the legend went. He could still remember the imposing and rigid stance his father had assumed that day, though he had been but a lad, the glimmer of pride shining in his eyes as he bestowed this token of his heritage to his only son. At that moment, one could have almost believed that Herr Edelmann was himself a stoic warrior, rather than a middling bookkeeper in a riverside shipping company. Even when he had come back to his home to deliver that crippling blow against the dreams of his father by enlisting in the Greatswords, his old man had demanded he keep it, believing it would keep him safe wherever he went. Klaus's inner skeptic would have liked to scoff at that, but everyone knew the price one paid for scoffing at the gods. So, he kept it, and wore it where he thought it might do the most good, holding it tight over a dozen battles hard-fought and hard-won. Though whether that was because he feared Ulric or merely wanted to keep the warmer memories of family close at hand, he could not say.

Praise the Comet that he had.

He still could not believe it, the miracle that had occurred to him and the wizard, the day prior. When the beast beside him had approached, snarling and fearsome, teeth bared, and cold fear gripped his heart. Jakob had reached for the sickle to his side, raising a hand that began to glow with green radiance, no doubt channeling the Jade Wind through his person. Yet, it had all been for naught, for in an instant they and the wolf had been blinded by a cold brilliance. It was cold light, blue like frost, blue like deepest winter. Klaus had glanced about frantically, searching for the source, when he had realized the truth. His charm was the culprit, and shook violently against his plate, upon which grasping fingers of frost spread outwards from where the trinket touched the polished steel. It shined white, like it was on fire, yet there was no heat whatsoever. Instead there was a deepest cold, that rushed through his veins and permeated his very soul, biting deep into his very essence like some savage beast of the wilds. His mouth had hung agape, and an agonized howl of pain tore from his throat as he felt the skin of his chest burn with glacial chill. Though he would not know until he tore off his plate armour afterwards to inspect the damage, he had been touched by Ulric himself.

In any State Troop regiment, it was common for the soldiery to adorn themselves with ritual scars and tattoos, portraying regimental and provincial symbols, religious iconography, and sometimes rather profane images of the fairer sex. Klaus himself had a few here and there, mostly on his arms, hammers and skulls and Sigmar's Cross. But on his chest… what was now there was unmistakable.

It was silvery, like the scar-tissue that featured so prominently on his more fanatical comrades, created through instance after instance of self-mutilation in the name of Ulric and Taal and Sigmar and Manaan. Yet, it was solid, and raised, and very cold to the touch compared to the rest of his skin. But most startling of all, it was in the image of a wolf, pouncing and snarling like the one that featured on the banner of Middenland.

A Mark of Ulric, undeniably.

To be marked by the Wolf God was something out of legend, that happened to men only spoken of around a roaring fire and with good company. It meant that the cold and distant Snow King Ulric had chosen to give his favor to a mortal servant who had done his work, or was meant to. For Klaus to receive it was a honour of such enormity that even now he was hard-pressed to understand it. But it had came with rather immediate benefits too, for the she-wolf had whined and come to his side, pressing her nuzzle against him like a common hound. This too he had heard of, Ulric sending a wolf to a favored follower to serve as a constant companion.

It was dizzying in how rapidly things had transpired, and yet the Jade Wizard had taken it in stride. With only a moment of bewilderment, he had rapidly recovered and grinned at Klaus.

"It seems not only Taal and Rhya have their influence on this new world too, Mister Edelmann! All the same, we must make haste towards the Stark castle, I must share my findings with my brother, and we've arranged to meet in a forest clearing nearby here."

Klaus had raised a brow at that.

"How the hell did you get a bloody message to your brother all the way out here?"

"We wizards have our ways, my good sir," A mischievous gleam lighting his eyes as green as a wooded glade, "Just come with me, we must make haste before the witch hunter notices Johann's absence."

So here they were, snaking through this wooded deep, their way shone only by the light of the moon. Yet, Klaus found that he did not truly mind, for the silence provided for him a means to think, to contemplate on what the Wolf-God had given him. It was said that quiet meditation was best after a divine event, that one may know the will of the gods while the memory of their interventions were still fresh and sharp. He figured a quiet walk through the trees was the next best thing.

It was cold and long going, and he was certain that the hour of the witch, midnight, had come and past. Now was the early morn, and the ever increasing tension in the air as the sun prepared to crest in the East, where Sigmar had journeyed beyond the World's Edge Mountains and transformed from man of flesh to god of eternity. At least, in the East back home. To be frank, Klaus was unsure of what was East to this land, or really anything about this land. He knew he should be more upset about that perhaps, but after all, ignorance can oftimes be the greatest of virtues, lest heretical knowledge corrupt.

Finally, the shaded trees that engulfed them lessened, and he could spot a dim glow ahead, telltale signs of a small campfire. They passed the threshold into the clearing Jakob had mentioned, the heavens shining with previously hidden radiance from the shining stars. It was a small clearing, only large enough for perhaps 4 or 5 horses to stand end to end. There indeed sputtered a small campfire, a hooded figure huddled over it, seated upon a fallen log. It looked up at their approach, revealing the weathered face of Johann. Johann rose and met to embrace his brother, identical grins of joy lightening the usually reserved and mysterious mien of the mages. Johann turned to him and gave a slight bow, his demeanor once more turning serious, hardening like molten silver poured into a water basin.

"Ah, Mister Edelmann. I was not expecting you to accompany my brother all the way out here."

His words were polite, but cool, and his eyes were narrowed at Klaus suspiciously.

Jakob seemed to realize what the issue, and raised a calming hand towards his skeptical kinsman.

"Peace, brother. Klaus here is not an agent of the witch hunter, or at least not his spy. I asked him to join us for a very different reason. If you would, good sir."

By the gesture Jakob sent his way, Klaus assumed he meant to show him the Mark, dutifully unstrapping his plate armor and pulling up his grimy tunic to display the sign of Ulric's favor that now emblazoned his chest like the heraldry on a knight's shield. As if that was not enough, the pregnant she-wolf chose that moment to stalk into the clearing, amber eyes clearly sizing up the Celestial Mage.

To his credit, Johann kept his face free of shock, though his eyes widened, time-worn wrinkles creasing around the sockets. He stared at the Mark for some time, and finally sighed, his eyes turned upwards.

"Then it is as I suspected. I have spent much time scrying, seeing, listening, charting. But most of all dreaming, for they speak to me, tell me of a great mission we must undertake. I believe that this was meant to happen, that we are the chosen instruments of our gods in this new world. Your Mark of Ulric only proves it. I have seen a great doom, sent to me by none other than the Lord of the Dead himself, who demands action. A plague, a plague of the vile Undead."

Klaus gulped, making the sign of the Comet over his heart. It was as instinctive as breathing. To be touched by Morr Himself was no small matter.

Jakob crossed his arms.

"You are not the only one who has seen threats in the night. I commune also with Taal and Rhya, I hear their whisper on the wind. I fear I am no druid, to be an expert on these things. But something, there is something else. A scratching, I've felt it, a gnawing on the roots of this world, as it were. Its faint, but its there. Like some dark presence, trying to tunnel in. What it desires, I shudder to imagine, for I have no doubt that it is as malevolent as it is vile. I… I'm not sure what it could be."

Jakob looked rather ashamed at his ignorance, his head hanging low.

Klaus hesitantly spoke up, his voice shaking with barely disguised fear.

"Could… could it be the Ruinous Powers?"

Jakob locked his gaze with Klaus then, his forest-green eyes visibly haunted.

"Perhaps. But perhaps not. Perhaps something else."

Whatever else it could be, Klaus most certainly did not want to meet it.

Suddenly both Jakob's and Johann's heads snapped away, their eyes trained on a nearby patch of undergrowth that began to shake in response to their sudden motion, Klaus's hand immediately going to unstrap his sword from his back. Johann grabbed his own bronze scepter, the blue crystal at the head suddenly glowing with auroral energies. As Klaus watched, it grew brighter and brighter, until finally the mage pointed it towards the bush, which now rustled with the activity of someone or something scrambling, though he could not see what in the dark. A blindingly luminous bolt shot from the end, coming to rest over the growth, revealing in the corona two small frightened faces, one long and with eyes like grey smoke, the other high-cheekboned and with eyes of sky blue. Children.

Both were visibly struggling, but Klaus could see their feet were bound by roots that burst from the ground like some serpentine predator. Judging from the shining green energies that danced at Jakob's fingers, he had no doubt used his Life Magic to will them into being. All the while the direwolf curiously lazed about on its side, one shining eye passively watching the spectacle unravel. Johann was the first of them to relax, doing so even before Klaus had drawn forth his Zweihander, which itself draw a sharp breath of terror from the two children. Though the boy began to frantically beg for his life, tears of fear running down his face, the other one merely frowned and set his ( _her, he could see now, a girl, though a somewhat plain one_ ) jaw in such a defiant way that he absurdly almost had to laugh. Klaus lowered his blade in appeasement, but she was the next to break the silence, her voice cutting through the incoherent babbling of her brother.

"I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, and if you kill us we'll kill all of you! The North Remembers!"

Jakob merely looked bewildered, but Johann closed his eyes while rubbing his temples, muttering in a tone of pure exasperation.

"Sigmar preserve us."


	13. A Most Unholy Number

SOME POOR FOOL

A few rough shoves, a nice kick or two. That was what Varik awoke to that morning. Considering what he dreamed of that night for the thousandth time, he embraced it, as callous as the gesture was. Once upon a time a decade or two ago when he was only a stupid boy he would awake roughly whenever he felt like it, perhaps go trapping or hunting with Morlaf and Bjorran, gather firewood for the small tribe he had belonged to with them and his father. His mother of course had died birthing him, but honestly that was something he came to realize was not so bad, compared to how else it might have been had she lived. No, that much he knew for fact, saw every night in his sleep.

It was the same every time, starting happily enough, that shining orange sun of four years past glaring in his eyes as he trod back towards the camp, a nice fat hare slung across his back. In his dream he was not the half-starved man he was today, but a gangly boy well on his way to adulthood. Yet the camp was empty every time he came back. Uncountable sleeps had he walked this same vision, and still he was shocked and confused every time. That was probably the worst of it, to be true. Not a soul to be found, not father or Morlaf or Bjorran, nor any of the others, not the chieftain either. Even the bloody dogs had vanished.

Next came the haunting part, what he knew to be truth from the jumbled, broken recollections he held to by day.

Faster than was natural, the sun slipped away, drowning in a sudden black that slid into the sky and ate the stars, clamping down on the warmth and life like the jaws of a beast. Cold too he remembered, for since then he had never felt cold like that, not even when frostbite stole two of his fingers. Creeping and crawling, frigid fingers stole his breath and seared his lungs. Every time his younger self dropped the hare and drew his dagger, gripped tight in fingers white as bone, even with his gloves of doeskin.

Stupid boy.

Compelled by some madness he crept forward, tensing with honed-instinct as the night surrounded him, watching with mocking disdain for this pitiful mortal in its midst. Hissing like steam and crackling like frost echoed from the brooding sentinel trees, a cacophony that pierced his ears. That was about when he pissed himself, a warm trickle down his leg that turned to frost in seconds. He did not blame himself for that, not when they finally revealed themselves from the haunted forest, drifting forth like a mirage.

Cold and dead, every last one, except they wore the faces of loved ones. Morlaf and Bjorran, faces usually alight with laughter now blank. Viri, the pretty girl with hair like raven-feathers who was his first fuck about a year before. Father, whose eyes had shone with pride when his son had made his first kill of an elk, now like all the rest. Ice blue eyes, like sapphires, where before had been brown and green and grey. They seemed to shine in the night, but nothing like their master.

It was seated on a dead horse, flesh as pale as milk, its eyes like azure stars. It stared at him, stared and hated, looking upon him like a man looks upon a particularly disgusting insect.

One black finger it raised, pointed at him straight as an arrow. Wordlessly his fallen kin moved forward, silent as the grave they belonged in. From then until he finally awoke was unclear, a jumble of pounding feet and a thumping heart, trees rushing past him as he raced towards some clearing, away from Winter itself. Louder and louder his breath would sound in his ears, heightening into a tempest scream until finally he was pulled back into the waking world.

That was where Varik found himself as always, blurry vision rapidly crystallizing into clarity. Directly above him was the top of his small tent, an old and familiar sight. He knew every line and stitch on the thing, having stared at it on many a night where he simply did not have the bravery to confront the dream yet again. It was adorned here and there with bone-charms, trinkets and the like. Mementos from years of wandering. As close as he had to home, really.

Pulling his eyes down from it, he came to behold the pale face that intruded within his makeshift chambers. It was a beautiful face, high cheekbones and eyes of pale grey. Over one shoulder hung a braid of honey-gold hair, that caught the early morning light like polished gold. She was ravishing, to be certain. It contrasted greatly to what came out of her dainty mouth, in fact.

"Move your lazy arse, Varik. We're leaving soon as we've eaten, before the Crows have a chance to track us down."

He rolled his eyes at her.

"Gods, Val, did Mance name you Queen when we wasn't lookin'?"

She tried to mask it with a grimace, but he saw how the corners of her mouth turned up at his jest as pulled out of his tent. It was charming, especially on a face like hers. Her fine teats didn't hurt either. If Jarl wasn't likely to rip him in two for it, he liked to think he would have tried to steal her a while ago. That is, if she didn't just kill him in the process, which was certainly a likely possibility too. All the same, it was time to rouse, so he rose, following her into the glow of the morn. It was cold as always, and there was no doubt that winter was here, at least beyond the Wall.

A small fire sputtered in the middle of their campsite, and a nice fat hare roast indeed roast on a spit above it, tended by another figure swaddled in thick furs. Her hair was fire-kissed, like copper, though her face was more round than the sharp features of Val. When she looked up to regard him, she grinned and waved him over. As he sat before the blessed warmth, she took the steaming carcass off the spit, carving a large piece off before handing it to him and Val.

"Finally woke up, did you Varik? About bloody time!"

He did not dignify that with an eye roll.

"Morning to you too, Ygritte."

They ate in relative silence, as they had run out of things to say after three moons out scouting for Mance. There had been another man in their group, that stupid boy Holger, but they had sent him back to Mance to report on what they found when they ran into a Crow patrol. It had been close, but they managed to avoid the fuckers. All the same, Mance needed to know that the Crows were active this far away from their fancy palace south of the Wall. So, now it was just him and the two women. Most men would laugh and call him lucky, but truth be told this journey made him damned uneasy. By now everyone had heard the rumors on top of the fact of the White Walkers return. Green lights spotted in caves, people disappearing, horrific cruel traps set in odd places, like some bastard was playing a sick game with his folk.

In short, it was the last thing Mance needed right now, and they were to find out what it was. They had been following some tracks for days now, the strangest tracks he'd ever seen in all his years in the depths of the wild. They were like those a rabbit or a shrew might mike, but huge, close in size to those of a wolf or even a man. It was the strangest thing. Usually such tracks would be long since blown away, but these had not.

Almost like they were meant to be followed.

He shuddered at that thought, even as he knew there was no alternative. They had to discover the truth, or all of Mance's years of preparation would be for naught. And they _had_ to get over the Wall. There was no other choice.

Thus fortified, he rose with the other two and help in packing the camp, strapping his meagre possessions to his person as they prepared to move out once more. He took the lead, as he was the best tracker of all of them, Ygritte and Val walked closely behind him, making idle chatter as they meandered through the silent morning forest. Finally, beside a frozen stream, he jabbed his spear in the frozen dirt and knelt before the tracks once more, and was immediately struck by what he saw.

They were fresh, but what's more was they were fresher than they had been the day before. Like someone had come and made the tracks in the same spot once more for their convenience. He turned to tell his companions, but hesitated, not wanting them to get jumpy over what could be a trick of his eyes.

Val noticed, however, one golden eyebrow leaping up.

"Something the matter, Varik?"

He slowly shook his head, and rose to his feet, taking his spear in hand and looking to their north, where the tracks seemed to lead towards some nearby hills.

"Nothing. Just trying to figure out these tracks."

From the look on her face, she clearly did not believe him at all, but could not disprove either way his claim.

So, they made their way up, into rougher country where the trees seemed to grow ever thicker. About the forest pulled closer, brush and branch reaching so close that they were almost like hands trying to grab. All the way the tracks circled, as straight and true as an arrow, even in the most precarious of terrain. Higher they ascended, over rocks and through crevices, and until finally they reached the crest of a hill and halted, all three huddling about a boulder as they gazed down into the small valley.

In the center hill, the highest of them all, yawned a gaping cave, the sort often used for shelter during nasty snow-storms. He strained to see, but spotted no signs of life around the cave, no firepits nor people. Just those tracks, leading directly into the cave. He turned to look at the women, who seemed to be making the same searching he was. Without a word, Val rose from their spot and hurried down the hillside, feet as nimble and certain as a mountain goat. Varik and Ygritte followed closely behind, as splitting up in uncertain territory like this would be damn foolish. Finally they came before the cave, which was lit from somewhere deep within from a sickly green glow.

Just like the rumors.

Val stood in silence, her usually fierce gaze now showing more than a hint of uncertainty and even fear. Finally, she tore her gaze away from the entrance and turned to her companions.

"All right, I imagine this is the place, judging by that queer green light. I'll go in with Varik. Ygritte, keep watch out here, make sure we aren't followed in."

Ygritte nodded, though her face betrayed her own uncertainty, hurrying over to a nearby grove to ensure she would be caught in the open. Val turned to Varik then, raising her spear and gesturing towards the cave.

"Let's go see what has Mance so scared, shall we?"

Brave words, but he appreciated the sentiment.

Inside the cave was rather unremarkable, stone and water and some moss here and there. Like any cave he had ever been. But as they advanced, that changed rather suddenly. They discovered the source of the glow, for all around them the stone was laced with veins of green rock, that seemed to pulse and glimmer with malignant energy. What was more, his hair stood on edge, like before a lightning storm, and he felt almost ill in his belly. Now signs of life were definite, as tools of all kinds were strewn about them. Pickaxes, buckets full of the green stone, and wooden scaffolding appeared. But who could have done it? With the exception of the Thenns, Free Folk did not mine nor smelt, did not know how to, like the kneelers did. And they were far from Thenn territory. Yet here it was, appearing as if out of thin air. Perhaps the Crows? But no, they wouldn't venture this far for ore they could just get easier and safer in the South. Who then? Or what?

That thought made him gulp, and they hurried forward then, Val clearly feeling as uneasy as he. Now the tunnel shortened again, barely wide enough for the two of them. It suddenly twisted and turned, disorienting changes of direction that made him glad there was someone by his side. Faster they moved, though they knew not why, until he and Val were nearly running. Finally she let out a gasp, and pulled him back from the ledge he nearly ran over. As he got his bearings, he saw they stood before a gaping chasm, with the ledge skirting the edge on either side of the entrance they came through. All along the ledge small holes in the rock were, looking decidedly unnatural. Of course, that paled in comparison to what he saw below him, coating the ground of the cavern.

It was an enormous settlement, lit by the same sickly green that illuminated the cave. He had heard stories of the kneeler cities, of their wealth and splendor whispered of around campfires, and he imagined they looked about his big. But for some reason, this one seemed positively alien to him. It twisted and staggered, structures of stone and brick and wood that looked ready to topple, broken mortar and shattered buildings being everywhere. It looked like it had been ravaged by a cataclysm and then rebuilt by some madman, pieces and bits placed wherever convenient rather than wherever practical. He was too far to spot the people, but he could see distant shapes, scurrying and scuttling like vermin about the gnarled shadows of the rotting towers, moving like no people he had ever seen. In the center of the strange city squatted an insane construct of metal and the green rock, which span and bucked like something living. In the heart of the thing, a green light brighter than any others in the city glowed, throwing off an emerald glare that hurt his eyes to look at. But for all that, he was not affected by what he saw nearly as much as what he smelled. Even from here, it was repulsive. Shit, vomit, decay, disease, pestilence. It was putrid and horrific, and by the look on Val's face, she felt the same.

"What by all the Gods…"

That was all he managed to breath, for he had failed to notice the nigh-silent patter of steps, nor the excited pants to his right. So, he found himself with a searing pain in his side, and he whirled to behold who had stabbed himself, only to almost jump back in shock.

It was a rat, he could see that clearly, but it was a fucking rat the size of a man. Its fur was filthy, and it wore only a soiled rag around its groin, and it hunched like an old man. Its maw was filled with sharp, crooked teeth that chattered with fervor even as it recoiled from him, a rusty blade in hand. Above all else, he saw its eyes, that glowed red, a hateful gaze that burned into him even as his wound burned. He staggered forward with his spear, but it recoiled, dodging his stumbling strike. It was not fast enough for Val, however, who had shock on her face even as she sprang forward to bury her axe in the rat-man's hideous brains. It keeled over dead, but their troubled were not nearly over, for suddenly the air was pierced by a thousand screaming shrieks, as the tunnels of the ledge erupted with giant vermin, rat-men like the last brandishing dirty weapons. They all rushed towards them, and he knew he was dead. But Val…

He turned her and pointed towards the entrance.

"Go, right bloody now! Get Ygritte and tell Mance! Right fucking now!"

She looked like she wanted to argue, but reconsidered when she saw the hideous horde surging towards them. Val gave him one last sympathetic look, and was gone, white furs rapidly vanishing down the tunnel.

He turned towards the vermin then, brandishing his spear as menacingly as possible. Surprisingly, it worked, for the cowardly creatures backed away and looked at one another, none wanting to be the first to die. His mind raced, considering something, anything, that would help him escape from this nightmare. That came to an end when a loud crack sounded above the disgusting noises of the rat-men. He felt a sudden blow in his chest, near his lung, and crumpled to the ground in a heap. He felt blood bloom from the wound, spreading red across his furs. Though he was defenceless, the horde stood still, dozens of beady crimson eyes glaring in the dark. Suddenly like a sea they parted, and he heard a clanging of metal on metal. Two rats, black furred and twice as big as any of the others sauntered forward, backs near as straight as a man. They were clad in armour, relatively clean and polished, at least compared to their comrades. Between them walked a smaller rat, with fur as grey as morning fog. It was clad in tattered robes, an ugly patchwork of browns and blacks, and atop its furry head was the skull of some beast, two horns spiralling away like worms. It came over and stooped to him, silent as a crypt as it peered at him through the eye sockets of the skull-helm. As red as the others, its eyes shone nonetheless with a malicious wit, and he saw its filthy mouth curl into a smug smile even as his vision began to blur.

One of the black beasts walked over, and opened its mouth, a voice that was deep and gurgling forcing its way through yellow teeth.

"Your Putridness Seer Skrot, what about the feeemale man-thing? Shall we catch-catch and stab-stab?"

At the idea of being given leave to "stab-stab" the horde chattered with excitement, shrill voices squealing and screeching agreement.

They grey one raised his hand for silence, and they were all silent, like he had stolen their very voices. Gods, was he going mad in his final moments?

It rose, and turned towards its subject rats. Its voice was shrill and harmonious, perverse as the rest of it.

"No, Stormvermin. Not those two. They shall run-run, and tell the other man-things what they saw in our home-home. Let them fear. Let the surface dwellers know what comes for them. Not even the White-Dead-Things will stop us! We shall drown them and strip their flesh with our teeth! We will EAT the SUN! For the Horned RAAAT!"

When the end came, Varik's ears rang with the hideous screams of the hideous rats and the braying laughter of their hideous leader.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** What you all have been waiting for, hope it doesn't disappoint :). As always, please review. The Horned Rat demands it!


	14. Bran II

BRAN II

 _He stood in the mouth of the Godswood, the proud old sentinel trees all around him. Ahead of him, the path towards the heart of the Godswood was shrouded in fog, thick as porridge. Though it was midday, the clouds hung low in the sky, drowning out the bright glare of the sun. At this hour, the castle should be bustling, servants and craftsmen filling the yards with their idle chatter and the bustle of their daily errands. It was silent as the crypts beneath Winterfell, not even the song of the birds to pierce the silence. Though he knew not why, Bran felt compelled to move forwards, into the billowing white miasma. Where he someone else, he was sure he would have gotten lost in the endless turns and twists of the Godswood, but he was a Stark of Winterfell, and this was home. But even beyond that, he knew the way, because he felt something he could see or feel pulling him. Pulling him to the heart of the Godswood. To the great Heart Tree._

 _In a flash, he was there, as though he had been in a trance as he made the rest of the way there. It stood as always it had, forlorn and grim faced, red sap weeping from the eyes. Its white roots grasped the hummus-coated earth, and the white branches reached up towards… that was when he truly jumped back, for lining every last branch were crows, black and brooding. At the middle of the murder was one, bigger than all the rest. This one had three eyes. It opened its beak, and screeched, sounding like screaming metal on stone. That was not all, for before his very eyes the earth began to boil, writhing like some serpent. Suddenly, it exploded, and out from the earth poured a tide of vermin, as black as the crows, gnawing and hissing and scurrying up the old weirwood._

" _ **Wrong! Wrong! Away! Away! Strangers! STRANGERS!"**_

 _Soon the whole flock took up the call, beating their wings and screeching and throwing themselves at the vermintide. He felt himself losing his nerve, stepping back forwards as the black beasts worked into a frenzy, tooth against beak and talon, a fanatical battle unfolding in miniature. Suddenly, all was white, and he found himself blinded. Thunder rumbled, and the very ground seemed to shake. White light came down from above, burning away the clouds and fog, bathing all in brilliance. At that the crows and rats shrinked, black running off their bodies like ink as their screams grew ever more hideous. He looked above him, and saw the source of the light. The Sign. As bright and brilliant as it was that fateful night. But as he watched, the light coalesced, and a figure pulled forth from the comet, like a man emerging from a lake. He was massive and well built, with eyes that burned like fire. He was clad in glorious armor, shining gold, and in his hands he held a massive hammer. The luminous being raised his hammer, as though to hail another, and bellowed out in a voice that rang through Bran's heart and head._

" _ **ABOMINATION MOST FOUL! BEGONE!"**_

 _With one last shriek, the beasts were gone, burned away utterly. Bran find that his voice had failed him._

 _Lowering his hammer, the being turned his burning gaze to Bran. His face was bearded and mighty, as though carved from stone, but it was not unkind. He raised a gilded hand, extending it towards Bran, as his vision once more became brighter and brighter as the wolves began to howl all around…_

"Wake up, stupid!"

His eyes blurry, Bran shook himself awake. He sat upright with a fright, eyes darting to and fro. But no eyes of fire burned in front of him. Only the grey eyes of his older sister as she sat at the foot of his bed. From the dim glow of his window, he guessed that it was late evening, before midnight. Though he could see little, he saw that she was dressed like a boy, ill fitting trousers and a ratty tunic. Jon's old clothes, probably. Her eyebrow was quirked at him, and her face betrayed the concern she had over his outburst.

"Are you alright?"

Though his face was still coated with sweat, he hurriedly nodded. Arya frowned at that.

"A nightmare then?"

Bran was hardly about to admit to his older sister that he was having nightmares like a baby, but what was more was that he was rapidly forgetting what exactly he had dreamed of in the first place. When he struggled to remember, more and more slipped away. Soon enough, he recalled only burning eyes and the scream of small creatures. It was enough to make him shiver in remembrance. He looked up at her, hoping his gaze was as calm as he was trying to make it.

"I'm fine, really. You just scared me, is all. Why are you here, anyway?"

Now her face brightened, and she leaned in to him.

"Everyone is still asleep, Mother and Father and Robb and Jon and them," Arya said with a conspiratorial whisper.

Bran raised an auburn eyebrow at that.

"So? Of course they would. It's before dawn."

She snorted at him.

"How can you all sleep? Now of all times, with those strangers and their _griffon_!"

Bran was forced to agree with her. They had been here for merely two days, and they were already the only thing anyone talked about. Washerwomen gossiped about the Templar, the guards quietly complained about how stressful their duties had become with the griffon watching their every step from the Broken Tower. For their part, the foreigners kept to themselves, Klutzer and Johann especially, keeping quarters in a further section of the Guest House. Though he spoke not often of them, it was obvious to the Stark children that the "guests" as Father demanded they be called, were something that weighed heavily on his mind. And yet… that could not be the _only_ reason Father was troubled. All of yesterday he had been distracted, and when his family tried to make idle talk with him his answers were short and curt. They had hosted guests before, though never guests with big feathery monsters. Clearly there was something else that weighed on his father's head.

Arya's smoky eyes shined with excitement, and she now leaned in close enough to him that he drew back slightly.

"I thought we would go and get a closer look at that knight. He's down in the yard by the Broken Tower. I _know_ you want to see the knight, in fact."

She had him there. Bran _did_ want to see that knight. He had been daydreaming of it every day since the strangers arrived, wanted to know with every fibre of his being what his life was like, what it meant to soar through the skies on the back of a mighty beast like the Targaryens of old. But Mother and Father had ordered them to not "pester" their guests, though the Stark children suspected that they were motivated more by fear than out of any genuine concern for the comfort of the strangers. As though he would just bother them pointlessly like baby Rickon. He was nearly a man grown, he was just as capable of being polite and practiced as Sansa. Their eldest sister had taken to watching the strangers as often as she could, as curious of them as she was frightened of their griffon. He made a point of rolling his eyes with Arya when he saw Sansa and Jeyne Poole simpering over the griffon knight Heinrich whenever he removed his ornate helm to reveal his face to the sun.

Bran narrowed his eyes at his smirking sister.

"What do you mean by a _closer look_?"

She grinned even wider then, for she knew she had hooked him like the fish on Mother's sigil.

"I snuck out of my chambers while Sansa slept, and slipped past Fat Tom at the guesthouse."

"If you got caught, Mother and Father would skin you alive."

She stuck out her tongue at him.

"I'm not stupid, _stupid_. I made sure no one saw me. Tom was dozing off anyway. But that's beside the point, because I saw the griffon knight sneaking out himself by the back door, headed towards the courtyard beneath the Broken Tower, out where the guards don't bother to patrol."

Bran's eyes widened, shining in the moonlight.

"The griffon," he breathed. "That's where it's roosting!"

Truth be told, he actually had no idea if griffons "roosted", but he could guess. Another thing he wanted to ask the strangers.

Arya nodded emphatically

"Exactly! So get dressed, quick."

He did as she bid, practically leaping from bed, grabbing a tunic and a pair of trousers off the floor in a rush. They were the previous days clothes, and still smelled faintly of dirt and sweat from time spent in the training yard, but he was hardly going to a feast, so comfort and utility took precedence over appearance for the time being. Besides, if Father caught them, his choice of clothing would be the least of his troubles. All the same, he hurried out the door with Arya, hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull on his left boot, the tapping mercifully muted by the rushes on the stone floor.

They made good speed, and Bran was put in mind of the night the Sign appeared to them. It felt the same, except now he was taking the same route as Jon and Robb instead of climbing in the dark like he himself had been. Bran was of the opinion that his way was better, but he was hardly going to waste breath convincing Arya that. His elder sister and her famed stubbornness were something he found himself envying and despising in equal measure.

Just as promised, the way to the Broken Tower was clear of guards, and the children took to hugging the shadows until they found a suitable spot to stick to on the wall of the entrance to the crypts. There they crept around the corner of the wall, finally turning the corner that opened into the courtyard. Arya was in front, naturally, with Bran huddling down to peek past her. It took a bit to see in the dark, but finally their vision cleared enough for them to spot their quarry. Both of whom were fast asleep, the knight sitting in the dirt in a faded red and white doublet, his head resting against the massive haunches of his feathery mount. For its part, the griffon was as relaxed as Bran had ever saw it, powerful muscles now slack in sleep, the great wings resting on top of the knight, like a great blanket. All in all, it was perversely mundane, as though the griffon knight was curled up with a favorite dog like a little boy.

Except it was giant beaked monster.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, before Arya finally groaned silently, no doubt disappointed by the lack of activity from the pair. Bran himself felt some pangs of the feeling, but also realized that it was rather unreasonable to be expecting anything else from a person at so late an hour.

The pair pulled back to sit on the many stones that littered the ground around the crypt wall. Arya idly kicked at the dirt.

"Seven hells. I thought they'd be doing _something_!"

"Don't curse. Mother wouldn't like it."

She glared at him for daring voice his insolence.

"I doubt she'd want us to be here either, but I don't see you complaining about that. Besides, I act more like a man than a lady, Septa Mordane says so. That means I can curse all I want!"

Bran had some doubts about the logic of Arya's reasoning, and was about to voice them, when he saw his elder sister was now looking past him, towards the North Gate. He whipped his head around, and saw what she did. There with a hood covering his head was hurrying the Magister, a gleaming bronze staff in hand. With a silent look towards each other Arya and Bran were off, rushing to follow the man. Now they found an excellent spot in some convenient shrubbery, able to easily watch the mysterious robed man approach the lowered portcullis. With a glance to either side of him, he took his staff in one hand and raised the other to his brow, bowing his head as though in deep concentration. As they watched, the gemstone of his staffs and his gleaming circlet began to glow a luminous azure. His hands were aglow with sapphire energies that danced about his fingers like fireflies, and he slowly raised them, beckoning upwards at the gate. Miraculously, it began to rise of its own accord, unnaturally silent as it obeyed his supernatural commands. When it had risen all the way Johann hurried forth, making swift striding steps as he hurried into the night.

Bran was speechless, as was Arya to his right.

 _Magic! He used magic! Like the Children of the Forest, or the Valyrians! Magic!_

Though his thoughts raced, his mouth was silent.

That was, silent until he let out a surprised gasp when Arya burst from the bushes and sprinted towards the open gate. He suddenly saw why, for the gate had begun to close, just as silent as it had opened. In other circumstances he might have just let Arya go and get in trouble herself, but… this was no mere game. There were mighty and strange forces in play, and what kind of knight would he be if he let a maiden come to harm? Well to be fair, it was no maiden, just Arya, but still!

Without another thought he shot off after her, rushing madly into the night after his erstwhile sister, praying that they would not meet their end with their skin being melted off by an angry wizard. Mother would be _furious_ , then.


	15. Johann II

JOHANN II

Once, some years back, an extraordinarily deplorable scandal had rocked Altdorf, of a sort that had not been seen in decades. This of itself was quite impressive, for Altdorf was already a city of great ill-repute, perhaps even more so for those who resided there. He and his colleagues in the College were mercifully insulated from it, protected from the view of the unwashed rabble as they were by the magical veils that conceal many of the Colleges of the Orders Magical. Even so, not even the glimmering bronze domes of the Celestial College were high enough to escape the outcry all together. It was said that a rather wealthy and influential burgomeister had been discovered by the witch hunters to have fallen to the depredations of Chaos and become a cultist of the Serpent, Slaanesh. Yet that was not the end of it, for it was discovered that the wretch had established an orphanage for the sole purpose of producing innocent children for his depraved rituals. Even now, he shivered to recall the haunted faces of the surviving children, the dead glassy orbs of their eyes, ushered as they were to the pyre. It was simply not safe to let them live, as tainted as they might be by the Chaotic, though some of the Light Order grumbled at the barbarism of it all. It was a quick affair, at the very least, the witch hunters dousing the children with as much oil as possible while piling the driest wood they could find about their feet. In an instant the fire had roared into existence, the pyres crackling with malignant intensity as the skin instantly roasted and charred on their bodies.

They had not so much as whimpered.

That was certainly more than could be said for the heretic, for certain. His punishment was devised after no less than three days by a team of veteran witch hunters. He was castrated and blinded simultaneously, his skin peeled from his face, and finally he was broken on a wheel in front of a jeering crowd. The witch hunters were so proud of themselves they petitioned the Emperor himself to make it the legal punishment for those who kidnapped children for malefic purposes in Altdorf. Karl Franz granted them that. Such was the fate of all those found guilty of such a horrific crime.

Johann chanced a look behind him, for there indeed following behind them were two children, both tied up by the wrists, a bored looking Klaus staring straight ahead behind them, trying to ignore the grey-eyed girl's constant whispering with her brother, gesturing all the while at himself, Klaus, and their lupine companion. All the while the pregnant direwolf loped, occasionally disappearing into the underbrush only to reappear like a phantom some time later, silently staying by the side of the marked Carroburger. His brother had returned to the Tower, the two having come to the conclusion that it was better that only one of them be murdered by the witch hunter if it came to that, rather than both. Neither truly believed that would happen, but you never knew with Klutzer's brethren.

 _Sigmar preserve us._

It was not meant to happen like this, his first meeting with the red-haired boy the gods showed him in his dreams. This boy whose soul burned like a beacon, who was incredibly powerful with the Gift. He had thought himself free of any potential tails when he had left Winterfell, had not even bothered to glance back. Such arrogance that was. If a Grey Wizard was around to witness it, he would no doubt mocked Johann for his carelessness. Yet here they were, and there was nothing that could change that. Thus, his plans must be _altered_ , somewhat. So be it.

Johann slowed his pace a bit, hanging back to walk beside the children as they marched in the direction of Winterfell, the Wolfswood all around them. At the least, the full moon still shined, allowing their way to be well lit. The girl silenced instantly, but dared to give him a contemptuous glare. He regarded both Starks with a raised eyebrow, watching as they tensed up, trying not to look at him. Johann cleared his throat.

"So, you are Brandon and Arya Stark, if I remember correctly?"

Bran nodded emphatically, but Arya leaned in towards him, a suspicious gleam in her eyes.

"Are you going to kill us? Is that your direwolf? Are you a wizard?"

Johann sighed deeply, steeling himself against her barrage of inquiries.

"No, I will not kill you, and no it's not my direwolf. If anyone, it belongs to Klaus there," Johann found himself struggling for words, as he tried to decide whether or not to disobey Klutzer and inform the children that yes, he was a wizard, technically speaking. "...and you are correct that I am a wizard, though those among my Order prefer the term Magister."

While Klaus looked at him like he had lost his mind, the children gasped in shock, their eyes growing wide with wonder, despite the bond of enchanted vine that still coiled about their wrists like an emerald serpent. He found himself distantly pleased, for he was not the first mage to indulge in savoring the air of awe and mystery that clung to his brethren like perfume.

Klaus shook his head, apparently resigning himself to flagrantly disregarding Klutzer's gag order.

"I must interject, wise Magister, for this noble wolf does not truly belong to me," Klaus stuck his nose in the air in a fine approximation of a stuffy Reikland bureaucrat as spoke with a strangely educated fashion for a State Trooper, "For all wolves are the blood of Ulric."

There was silence for a few heartbeats, until Arya spoke up, naked curiosity in her voice.

"Who's Ulric?"

Johann glanced at Klaus, who returned his confused look before responding to the girl, his accent dropping back into its natural Middenlander coarseness.

"...Ulric? You know, the White King, the Bloodhand," Klaus listing off the various titles and local names that were often given to his god, growing frustrated by the utter lack of comprehension of the faces of the children, "The Wolf God! You bloody people have a bloody wolf on your sigils, yet you don't know about the Wolf God of Winter?"

Bran and Arya both shook their heads, but Bran leaned in towards Klaus, eyes bright.

"There's a god of wolves?"

Klaus chuckled at that.

"Of course, lad. He's one of the mightiest of the gods too, for he lends his strength to the armies of the Northern Empire. It is said he appears as a great white wolf, whose howl fills the hearts of the vile with dread and the hearts of the faithful with righteous fury. When winter comes, men turn to Ulric for the strength to last through the winter. He is known across the Old World, and yet you have never heard of him? Who do you keep faith with?"

The two young nobles shared a glance of their own before Bran spoke up, his tone reminiscent of a scholar giving a lecture.

"In most of the Seven Kingdoms in the south, people worship the new gods of the Andals, the Seven," A contemplative frown appeared on the boy's face. "Though Mo… erm, I mean Lady Stark, and Septon Chayle say that the Seven are actually just the seven faces of one god. It's very confusing." His face scrunched up at that.

Arya piped up beside him.

"But we're Northerners, and ours is the blood of the First Men," Her eyes shined with pride at that, her tone reminding Johann of a Reiklander speaking of his own heritage. "That means we keep to the Old Gods. They say they're gods of the trees and the stones, that they have no names but can see through the faces on the weirwoods. Father tells us that even though they don't have any priests or holy books or septs, the Old Gods are just as real as the Seven. He says that the Old Gods never forget, and that you can never lie to them."

For being as young as she was, Johann was surprised at the solemnity and seriousness she held her beliefs. She sounded like half a Warrior-Priest. But beyond that…

"Gods of trees and stones? In the Empire, only two gods have dominion over those. Taal and Rhya, the God of Nature and the Goddess of Life and Fertility."

Before his sister could respond, the Gifted lordling beat her to it, auburn brows furrowed.

"You've talked about the Empire before, but we've never heard of it. Are you from beyond the Sunset Sea? Maester Luwin says that no one has ever crossed over and returned, but I don't know where else you could possibly be from, since you appeared out of nowhere. Did you use magic to come here?" Now the boy swallowed, his voice a tad quieter. "Did you send the Sign?"

 _Very clever, too. Perhaps too clever_.

Their group had been wondering at first as to why these natives knew where to find them when they first arrived. It was only after some clandestine work and some well placed bribes with what gold they had on their persons that they had recounted to them the story of the twin-tailed comet that appeared over the tower. Needless to say, it had shaken them all to the care, that Sigmar himself clearly was watching them here. Most of all, it meant his plans must be accelerated. That the boy had the wherewithal to try and connect all these happenings at such a young age marked him as unusually bright.

Being clever was a fine thing, a gift from Verena that marks one as special. But for a mage, it can be as deadly as poison. Being too clever leads to arrogance, and an arrogant mage oftimes finds his soul dangerously at risk of falling to the machinations of the Old Night, of the Dark Gods. So much this boy did not know, ignorant of both his potential and his peril.

"Perhaps that is a story for a different time," Johann tried to think of a different topic. "We should be close, shouldn't we, Mister Edelmann?"

His hailing of Klaus went unnoticed, for the grizzled swordsman's eyes darted to and fro, his entire manner reminiscent of a hound searching for a threat. Or perhaps even a wolf. Johann strained to see what he was looking at, but found the light insufficient. Klaus halted, and raised a fist, signalling for them to stop. His hands slowly went to his scabbard, fingers clasping about the worn leather hilt as the blade slowly drew forth from the lacquered wood. Even in the pale moonlight, it shone gloriously.

For his part, Johann reached for his staff, gesturing towards his visibly frightened young charges for silence. Wordlessly, they nodded their compliance, subconsciously drawing closer to each other as they warily glanced about the foreboding gloom.

Suddenly, the night was pierced by a rustling, and into the lonely stretch of constricted forest stepped several figures, cloaked in tattered cloth and ratty leather. Johann counted about a dozen hunched figures, some having wrapped their clothes with greasy furs. One was a scrawny looking older man in a black coat, and even from where he stood Johann could see that he lacked ears. Among their number one of the strangers stepped forwards. This one was big, a head taller than the rest, bald with skin an angry windburned red. He hefted in his right hand a shoddy axe with a rusty iron head, but still clearly sharp enough to do a bit of damage. His voice was low, an unpleasant raspy growl.

"What have we here, some kneelers out for a stroll in a dark forest?"

Klaus stepped forward, hefting his greatsword upon his shoulder with false nonchalance.

"That's exactly what it looks like, mate. So I suggest you and your friends there continue on your way and we'll call it a night"

At that the bald man rumbled with laughter, though it was devoid of good humour.

"Well, way I see it, there's lots of us, and only two of you," He glanced over Klaus's shoulder. "And two children. Not much of a warband, I'd say. So how about you give us those fancy gemstones that blue robed ponce over there is clad in?"

Johann noticed what he'd said about their numbers and glanced around, quietly cursing under his breath. The direwolf had chosen a poor time to vanish.

Klaus gave a chuckle of his own, which was similarly hostile.

"I don't think that's going to happen. Last warning, friend."

Before anyone else could do anything, the black clad man's eyes widened and he stepped up behind the bald man.

"Stiv, wait! I've seen those children before, when I was recruiting for the Watch. Those are Ned Stark's issue. Perhaps we should…" He trailed off as Stiv turned to give him a frosty glare.

"What the fuck did I tell you, Gared? Keep your crow mouth shut."

Arya glared at the man, and piped up behind them.

"They're wildlings from beyond Wall. And he's wearing a Night's Watch cloak. He's a deserter!"

Gared looked like he wanted to say something, but suddenly gave an alarmed shout and pointed forwards.

Klaus had taken the distraction to make his move, leaping forward with a swiftness that surprised even Johann. With one smooth practiced sweep he cleaved Stiv in two, the magnificent glitter of his mighty zweihander suddenly muted by the gore and viscera that coated it. Shiv collapsed in pieces, entrails spilling onto the cold dirt even as his upper body still shuddered with his death twitches. Klaus whirled to dodge the blow of another wildling axe, catching and deflecting the blow on the dwarven steel of his left pauldron. Klaus grabbed the blade of his greatsword and jabbed it like a spear into the guts of the wildling, who moaned in pain and futilely grabbed at the nasty hole that had been pierced in his center. Another two advanced, but were stopped by a howl from the forest, as the pregnant direwolf finally made her appearance known, leaping from the brush to rip the throat from a spearwife. Unfortunately, one of the wildlings was fast with his hands, and whirled to strike with his axe. In other circumstances, the wolf would have dodged with ease, but was weighed down by her pregnant belly. She was struck square in the neck, whimpering with pain and stumbling back into the underbrush in escape. Klaus now leaped back, waving his sword at the crowd of now ten, none of whom were eager to charge at the veteran Greatsword. Alas, that came to an end when Klaus shouted in pain and grasped at his right leg, where an arrow plumed with goose feathers now bloomed, a wooden stem with growing petals of red that spread across the immaculate white of his uniform. He staggered to one side, supporting himself with the greatsword, his balance utterly lost. A few of the wildling now inched forward, even though Klaus now brandished the dagger from his belt at them.

It seems he must now intervene. How tiresome.

Johann was not at full power, this much he would admit. Here, the Winds blew, but not like they did in the Old World. Until he finished charting the stars and scrying the cosmos, he would be limited. But even limited...

He stepped forward, the stone on his staff glowing with ethereal energy, sapphire light bathing the entire scene. Both Stark children gasped behind him, too amazed to even consider fleeing like they should be. The wildlings saw too, and halted immediately, glancing at one another with naked wariness on their weathered faces. Johann raised a hand and grasped it around the stone, crackling energies dancing in his very hand now as he pulled it away. Under his breath he mutter the words of a spell, High Elven words of power that had been drilled into him from childhood as he marched towards the increasingly nervous savages. As his chants grew in volume so too did the magical power in his hand, and when the wildlings finally decided to turn tail it was too late. He unleashed his wrath, a bolt of chain lightning exploding from his fingertips, striking the two closest wildlings, including the short archer who hit Klaus. They screamed in agony as the heavenly energies roasted them alive, their furs catching on fire as they convulsed uncontrollably. From them the lightning jumped, striking three more in quick succession, who all suffered the same fate as their wretched fellows. Now all the rest of them screamed in terror, sprinting away in a mad dash to escape his wrath. Secretly, he was pleased at that, for he felt himself grow quickly lightheaded, the world spinning around him as he supported himself with his staff. He raised a shaking hand to his nose, his fingers still smoking and reeking of ozone. Blood ran from his nostrils and stained his fine robes, brought about by his magical exertion. This was most unfortunate. Another bolt and he likely would have passed out.

It seemed not all the mob had escaped, for the one named Gared had apparently tripped, and now had scrambled across the dirt to a tree, was whimpering like a babe. His hands were raised to his face and his eyes were wide with terror, and as Johann regained his footing and approached him, he could smell that that man had soiled his black robes. Klaus limped over, grimacing with pain and still grasping at his breeches leg, which was now almost entirely red from the knee down. He still managed to laugh at the pitiful wretch.

"You got off cheap, mate. Chin up, we won't kill you."

Gared babbled pathetically.

"Oh thank you, my lords, thank you! I.. I.. I didn't want to attack you, I swear by all the gods! I just, I had to escape from the Wall. I had to get away from _them_!"

Johann frowned. _Them?_

Before he could inquire further, Klaus swore next to him. Johann whirled about to see that the children were now gone. In the woods, they could be anywhere, but it seemed that they did not need to look far. Growing rapidly louder Johann could hear the rhythmic clopping of horseshoes. Many horseshoes. In the growing light of early morn a column of horsemen raced down the forest path, bearing banners of wolves. At their forefront rode Lord Stark and his sons. All three wore identically fearsome expressions, and the sons each had one of the children in the saddle in front of them, Bran with Robb, Arya with Jon. That was not what frightened Johann. What did frighten him was Klutzer on a black stallion beside them. His eyes were nightmarishly cold, and pierced right into Johann's soul. Beside him, Klaus managed to give a little bow.

"Good morning, my lords! Fine day for a stroll."

Johann could not help but snort. He had always been fond of gallows humour.


	16. Robb IV

ROBB IV

Tired and miserable were the two words that Robb felt best described his current state almost perfectly. Being awakened in the middle of the night seemed to be the new order of the castle for him. Just like the night of the Sign, except this time it was not of his doing. The heir of Winterfell had awakened in the earliest morn to insistent pounding on his door, the banging pulling him from his blissful rest like war drums pulling soldiers into formation. He shot upright, his eyes bleary with sleep not caught. He and Jon had drilled hard the previous day, and it seemed every inch of his body creaked in protest at the sudden motion. Robb was but a hair away from growling at the intruder to go bugger himself with a hot poker when the door swung open to reveal the long face of Father. He was fully dressed to travel, a grey jerkin over a black doublet, a great grey cloak covering both, and his extremities were covered in fine boots and gloves of boiled leather and felt. Though his face was solemn, his eyes betrayed a fear and uncertainty that was vanishingly rare in the Lord of Winterfell. That alone was enough to shake him to the core. Yet, somehow, the words he spoke felt like enough to shatter him.

"Arya and Bran have vanished. Old Nan happened to check on Bran's chambers, and found that he was gone. Arya too."

Robb merely stared at Father, bewildered.

"But...how?"

Father's eyes hardened.

"That blue-cloaked stranger has vanished," he said simply, though his tone was as steel.

 _Of course_.

Robb was of the same mind as Jon and Father about the strangers. They were guests, and there were few things more sacred in the North than guest right. All the same, they were seen with wary suspicion, and with good reason. While the griffon knight himself was the very soul of courtesy and grace, his mount was an ornery beast. The day before, their sparring had been temporarily interrupted when the ravaged corpse of a doe had dropped down on them from the skies. Fat Tom had nearly been flattened. When the men had looked up, they saw the monster high above, lazily drifting on the winds. Judging by the state of the carcass, it had likely only been half eaten before the griffon just let it go, apparently sated. Robb thanked the gods that not only had no one been injured, but that Sansa had not been there to see the poor eviscerated deer and its splattered entrails. His sweet-hearted sister would have suffered nightmares for a whole moon. And if it could do that to a whole deer, what could it to do to a man? Or a child?

Like an arrow loosed from a bow, Robb shot from bed, trying to hold down the panic that was rising in his throat. He pulled out riding clothes from his wardrobe, hurrying to get dressed. Absurdly he was reminded of childhood, when he and Jon awoke to find that a summer snow had fallen, and they raced to see who could get dressed first. But this was no game, and the lives of his family could be at stake. Robb swiftly pulled on a jerkin, vehemently cursing when his shaking fingers failed him in lacing it up. He nearly flinched when he felt Father lay a hand on his shoulder, and turned to meet his gaze.

"Steady, Robb. We'll find them," now his voice was softer, and he could see the worry etched on the lines of Father's long face.

Robb slowly nodded, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths and bring his swirling thoughts and fears under control. He finished dressing, and followed Father out into the corridor. Fat Tom and Hal were already there, along with a few of the other household guards. All were clad in hauberks of ringmail over boiled leather, and wore longswords at their sides. Hal carried an extra sword on him, and handed it to Robb, his square jaw set with determination.

"Sorry for such a sudden introduction to real swordplay, m'lord. But this is no game."

Robb swallowed when he turned it over in his hand. Live steel. _No game, indeed_.

He furrowed his brow, looking up from the blade at Father.

"Where are Jon and Theon?"

Father looked past him, down the hall towards the stairs that led to Jon and Theon's chambers. They were located lower in the tower that housed the trueborn Stark sons, as was thought to befit a bastard and a hostage.

"I sent Jory ahead to fetch them, secure Sansa and Rickon, and tell Hullen to prepare the horses for a search party. Robb and Jon are to meet us when we go out into the yard to depart."

A thought struck Robb then, as their party departed to wherever Father's destination was.

"Before you only mentioned the blue-robed one, what was his name, Yo-han," Robb tried to pronounce the unfamiliar name, "What of the other two?"

A grimace appeared on Father's face.

"The griffon knight is out in the yard. I'm told he's sleeping with the griffon."

Robb's brow shot up at that.

"Sleeping?"

"Aye, like a boy with a hound. We'll deal with him later, preferably without any confrontation. By the gods, I doubt we'd survive one anyway."

Robb shuddered at the thought. He couldn't imagine getting any closer to the beast than was absolutely necessary, much less _sleeping_ next to the bloody thing.

"So, what of Deadeyes?"

Father smiled a bit at the name that had stuck to Klutzer around the castle, though Robb personally thought it a tad inaccurate. His eyes were not dead in his opinion, they merely burned with an intense fervor at whatever he looked at. More than a few maids had nearly cried from a mere glance of his, and Robb couldn't blame them.

"He is who we are going to right now. We don't know if he had a hand in this, and they have guest right. But if he did…" Father grimaced, and his eyes were colder than a blizzard. He didn't have to finish his words for Robb to understand. They turned a corner and opened thick ironwood doors, exiting onto the long covered bridge that took them over the training yards and towards the guesthouse, where Klutzer was staying. In the middle of the span stood Lady Stark, animatedly giving instructions to Septa Mordane, who rushed past their party towards the Great Keep, only briefly pausing to give Father and Robb a curt bow. Father hurried ahead to embrace Mother, who did the same to Robb. His mother was clad in a simple grey gown with white fur trimming, no doubt hurriedly thrown on over her shift when she was awoken with Father. Though it was a chilly night, she bore it with admirable grace. All the same, there was obvious fear on his Mother's face, mirroring the feelings that crept in Robb's mind.

"I've told the septa to go and watch Sansa and Rickon, to free Jory for the search."

Father took hold of her hands then, and pulled them to his lips.

"Fear not, my love. We _will_ find them, unharmed. I swear to you."

Mother closed her eyes and nodded, taking a deep breath herself. Father did not make oaths he didn't intend to keep, she knew better than anyone.

They moved ahead, but not before his mother took Robb by the hand.

"Be safe, _please_."

Her bright blue eyes, so like his own, shone with emotion. But she would not cry, she was too strong for that.

"I will, Mother. I'll make you proud."

She smiled at him, patting his cheek with a hand that was going white from the cold.

"You already have."

He beamed at her, embracing her one last time before hurrying to catch up with his Father in the guesthouse.

When he met up with them, they had stopped at the entrance to the hallway where Klutzer's room was. His was the farthest down the hall, past the rooms that ordinarily housed the griffon knight and the blue-robed magister. Even though the hour was late, Robb could see tendrils of light creeping under the door to his room. Beside him, Hal cursed.

"Seven fucking hells. Does the bugger _ever_ sleep?"

A few of the men snickered at that, Robb included, but Father remained stony faced.

"I had hoped to catch him sleeping, no chance of bloodshed. It seems that plan must be abandoned. So be it. Tom, you and Harwin will open the doors go in first, we'll follow you from behind. Don't attack him, but make sure he knows he's outnumbered."

Fat Tom and Harwin shared a quick look, clearly not enthusiastic about being the first people to rush Deadeyes, but they had faith in their lord. As they took up their places on either side of the door, Robb whispered to Father.

"What if the door is barred?"

Father gave him a slight smile.

"Your mother made sure the maids removed the bars before we gave the strangers these rooms."

Robb smiled right back. Clever of Mother, as ever.

Father then turned to the men flanking the doors and nodded. They both closed their eyes and gave a prayer to the Old Gods, before turning and pushing open the door, rushing through the threshold with swords at the ready, the rest of their group behind them. As they parted for Father and Robb, he was finally to lay eyes upon the fearsome Klutzer.

He was sat on a fine oak desk on the left wall of the room, and only partially dressed, his long coat neatly folded on the bend with his tall hat laying atop it. He wore a doublet over a thin tunic, with twin-tailed comets and fat-armed crosses woven into the cloth. On his legs were the same leather trousers, and on his feet the same iron spiked boots he always wore. Resting against the wall next to him was his fine sword, mercifully sheathed. His desk was sparsely populated, only a few books and a small stack of papers, with one of the books open in front of the man, bound with dark leather and inscribed in gold along the sides much in the same way that all the possessions of the Imperials were, skulls and hammers and comets and crosses. Also on the desk were two of those strange wood and metal tubes Deadeyes wore on his person. Robb suspected they were weapons, based on the way Klutzer carried them.

That, and the fact that he had one pointed at Father's head. As he saw that he was outnumbered, Klutzer pulled it back, lazily resting his outstretched weapon hand on his shoulder. In his other hand he held a goblet filled with some pinkish red drink, which he raised to his lips and took a long draw from, though his icy blue eyes never left the Stark group.

"Ah, my lords of Stark. You seem to have caught me perusing the _Deus Sigmar_ ," Klutzer gestured towards the book with his goblet hand, and spoke with an unconcerned drawl, seeming to be utterly uncaring that several men now pointed swords at him, "I also had the foresight to bring a wineskin filled with my finest claret, from Bordeleaux."

Father stepped forward, eyes narrowed and voice frosty, not in the mood for jests.

"Two of my children have gone missing tonight. My son Bran, and my daughter Arya," He growled his words, like a wolf might.

Klutzer did not react to that strongly at all, merely raising an eyebrow.

"That is...most unfortunate. However, you must forgive me for failing to see how that concerns me."

Klutzer swirled the wine around in his goblet as Father silently glowered at him, which Deadeyes returned unflinchingly. For several moments neither made so much as a sound, before Father finally exhaled, almost imperceptibly. Not quietly enough, it seemed, for Klutzer gave a tiny grin of satisfaction at knowing he had won the little contest.

Father narrowed his eyes

"Your man in the blue robes, the magister. He has vanished too."

Klutzer's eyes widened at that, and the corners of his mouth curled into a near snarl.

"Ah. I see how this is my concern now," Almost under his breath Deadeyes muttered, " _Morr take the stupid bastard._ "

Father nodded.

"And as you seemed to be the leader of your group, I thought y-"

"Yes, yes, you thought I ordered it, but since I did not you were about to insult my ability to control my men. Really, Lord Stark, I can read you like a book."

Father frowned at the man.

"In any case, we are dispatching a search party."

"As well you might. I shall inform Heinrich to join us, as his griffon wi-"

"You shall not. I won't have that beast anywhere near my children."

Robb was pleased that Father shared his concern about that feathery monster. Klutzer scoffed, but conceded.

"Very well. I must insist that I accompany you, at the very least."

Father looked wary of the notion, rather wisely in Robb's opinion, but dipped his head in acquiescence.

Robb did not dare allow himself to despair. They _would_ find Bran and Arya.

* * *

Searching for two children in the dead of night was very difficult work, though in retrospect they probably should have known that. When they went out into the yard with Theon and Jon, Klutzer had hurried over to rouse the griffon knight, engaging in a short and apparently very pointed conversation. As much as Robb misliked the man, he could help but be a bit impressed with the way he approached the griffon without so much as a hint of fear. For its part, the monster seemed not bothered by his presence at all, casually watching him from the side of its colossal head. Though he roused, apparently Heinrich was ordered to remain where he was, for he merely leaned against a wall and waved at them as they left. Father made sure a few guardsmen kept on an eye on him. To be frank, Robb wasn't sure there was very much they could do to him, not with that beast.

As expected, Hullen already had their horses saddled and ready for them, and hurried to find a horse for Klutzer when directed. Despite the seriousness of their situation, Robb and Jon could hardly help from snorting when the black stallion that Theon fancied was brought out for Deadeyes, ignoring the pointed look Theon shot their way from on top of his pretty white mare.

Further questions were raised for them when Father called for a tracker as they were about to exit the North Gate that they may try to find some tracks to begin the search. Klutzer waved him off, and knelt over in the cold mud near the portcullis. When the Starks came over to see what he was inspecting, he had shone his torch upon the ground, revealing the source of his fascination. There were three tracks, two of which were small footprints, while the other was larger. By the freshness of them, they could not have been left more than a few hours before. That he could spot them in the low light, even with a full moon, was of itself shocking, not even counting his skill at arms. What was Deadeyes? What sort of man with a title like "Templar" has business wielding more weapons than a knight and was as fine a tracker as any hunter Robb had ever known? By the worried look he caught in Jon's eye, he felt much the same.

They had no time for worry, however, for Klutzer swiftly mounted his horse and rode off through the gate, the Stark party close on his heels.

Blessfully, Hullen had found no missing horses when he inspecting the stable, which meant his siblings and the missing stranger were on foot. Klutzer stuck to the side of the forest path, following the tracks, and finally pulled back on the reins a bit to ride parallel to the Stark party when he seemed satisfied that their quandary had not taken off into the woods.

"Well, Lord Stark, it seems that my man did not have a hand in your children's disappearance after all."

Father cocked an eyebrow at Deadeyes.

"What do you mean?"

Klutzer vaguely waved at the tracks.

"These larger tracks are on the center of the trail, while the smaller ones I assume belong to your issue stay close to the side. Almost as though they were following him, but did not want to be seen."

Theon interrupted them with a scoff.

"How do you bloody know that? Are you some sort of tracker?"

"Hmm, I suppose so. You could even call me a _hunter_."

The manner in which he said hunter made it seem like he was making a jest, but the smile he gave Theon chilled Robb to the core.

They rode on for a short time longer, which Robb spent quietly chatting with Jon and Theon, content with cautiously eying Klutzer as he did all the work with tracking. Not for the first time Robb found himself wishing the Forresters hadn't left the day before back to Ironrath. Father was much the same, but said nothing, keeping his gaze on the road, solid and unwavering. But finally, they heard something piercing the cold air of early morn. Something that nearly caused the panic he had forced down before to claw its way back up his gullet.

Faintly but clearly, they could make out the unmistakable clamor of steel on steel. At once they urged their steeds into a sprint, Robb praying they would not trip and break a leg in their haste. Behind them the men carrying the Stark banners belatedly followed, cursing quietly at the sudden change of pace. That did not matter to Robb at all, for his mind was racing faster than his horse was. All around them the foliage whipped past, the clattering of their hooves pounding in Robb's head, a thunderous companion to his tempestuous thoughts.

 _Let them be safe Gods please Gods please GodspleaseGodsplease_

They moved so fast that when Bran and Arya broke forward from the underbrush they very nearly rode right past them, only stepping when Father let out a shout and yanked on the reins of his poor horse so hard Robb thought the thing might buck and throw. With one motion Father leaped off his horse, Robb and Jon close behind. Father caught both his children in a wide hug, hushing them as they both cried apologies and frantically babbled at him.

Arya was the first to become comprehensible, tugging at Father's sleeve.

"Father we have to save them! There were wildlings and a wizard and a direwolf but he got hit with an arrow and please we have to save them!"

Though she spoke nonsense, her eyes were filled with a very earnest fear, and Bran beside her nodded frantically. Father frowned, mirroring Robb's own thoughts, though before they could say anything Klutzer stepped before the children. He knelt before them, a curious expression on his face.

"What was that you said? A wizard?"

 _Why are you taking stock in the words of hysterical children, you bloody bastard?_ Robb thought uncharitably.

However, both children firmly nodded, and Bran was the next to speak.

"We were...following him," He said that with a bit of hesitation, and Arya bit her lip beside him, "We found him performing magic with a green man! They had a direwolf too, and we were to follow him back to Winterfell. He had us bound with vines, though. But then we got ambushed by some wildlings and a Night's Watch deserter! The man with the big sword cut the vines and fought them off, but they shot him with an arrow, so the Magister casted a spell and _lightning shot from his hands!_ "

Klutzer tensed noticeably, though his face remained unreadable.

Father did not say anything in response to their fantastic tale, merely sharing a wary glance with Robb and Jon before handing off the children to them. Now it was silent in the woods, so apparently the imminent danger was gone. They both mounted with a sibling, Robb with Bran and Arya with Jon. Jon grinned on his horse as Arya attempted to continue her story, shushing her as she sat in front of him in the saddle. Bran was silent himself for a few heartbeats, before turning to Robb.

"Robb, you believe us? Right?"

He was clearly trying and failing to keep his tone from sounding pleading. Robb merely patted him on the shoulder.

"No doubt you saw something, little brother. Let's go see what, shall we?"

Bran blinked at him, his eyes shining with apprehension. All the same, he nodded and turned back to face forwards.

What they did find in the road span ahead was nothing short of shocking. Here and there corpses were strewn across the ground, smoking like they had just been roasted by a dragon. Their limbs were contorted in unnatural positions, as though their last moments had been spent having a fit.

And ahead stood the apparent perpetrators, blue robed Johann swaying like a drunkard as blood ran down his face. Beside him the man with the enormous sword from the tower stood, and Robb could see he indeed had an arrow sticking out of his left calf. They stood over a man in a black cloak, who was lying upon the ground against a tree, eyes wide with terror. Both men did not look exactly happy to see them when they turned to regard the Stark party, and both turned white at the sight of Klutzer, though Klaus managed a small bow.

"Good morning, my lords. Fine day for a stroll."

Robb only scowled deeper.

 _Smug fucking bugger_


	17. Heinrich III

HEINRICH III

It was usually a grim and primeval place, truthfully better suited for the worship of Taal and Rhya than the veneration of Sigmar. Yet, as the sun rose in the east, the grove went through a miraculous transformation, as the golden glow of morn dispelled the creeping shadows, just as Sigmar beat off the Old Night. It was truly a wonder of a view, one that Heinrich took full of advantage of as he knelt in the humus and foliage, performing his dawn prayers to the Heldenhammer. If there was a disadvantage, it was that he had to pray before this damned ugly tree. It was a twisting goliath, with bark as white as bone and leaves like crimson blood. If that wasn't enough, the bloody tree had a face carved into it, long and melancholy like a statue of Morr. If Heinrich had to venture a guess, he'd say this was where the locals venerated their heathen gods.

 _Ugh, damned savages._

Well, a true Son of Sigmar did not fear malevolent and wicked forces, not so long as he had the might of the Heldenhammer beside him at all times. He tried to capture the spirit of that faith as he bent his head before the rising sun, feeling its gentle warmth caress his scalp.

" _Almighty Sigmar, saviour of the Empire, hear my words and give me strength. I tread an uncertain path in a foreign land, far from the soil of my fathers before me. As always, the Old Night gathers, and with it the scourges uncountable that blight the realms of men. But I despair not, for the Hammer that smites the wicked protects me, and my way is lit by your blessed Comet, oh eternal lord. Ave Sigmar, for in all things your…"_

Heinrich had not become a knight of the Reiksguard through a lack of vigilance. His head shot up as the words died in his throat, gazing all around in this lightning wood. A branch had broken, he was sure of it. No small creature would make a noise like that. Instinctively his mailed fist closed around the hilt of _Beast Slayer_ , and he silently cursed himself for having gone out into this wood without his plate. All he had besides his gauntlets were his tunic and a doublet with the colors of the Reiksguard emblazoned upon it. So be it.

"Reveal yourself! Or come taste Sigmar's fury!"

He regretted the words almost the instant they left his lips. He couldn't just go about threatening people in their own castle, Reiksguard or no.

Nonetheless, his threat apparently hit its mark, for a small old man in smoky robes stumbled out of the bush with a cry of alarm and his hands raised high above his head. His eyes were as grey as the rest of him, and currently wide in alarm.

"My apologies, Ser Hen-rich! I did not mean to spy."

Heinrich slowly released the pommel of the enchanted blade, resisting a roll of the eyes at the mispronunciation of his name while savoring his relief that he had not inadvertently insulted some local heathen nobleman. This mousy little fellow was...Lowun, Louis, something like that. From what information Heinrich had managed to divine from his observation, this fellow was some sort of learned man or healer. He certainly had the look for it. In fact, he almost put him in mind of Friedrich, the cranky old archivist at Castle Reiksguard.

That memory caused a most unexpected spike of pain to drive itself into his heart. There was a good chance he would never again be chided by Friedrich for walking too loudly. He was indeed far from home, and the was no path in sight. Heinrich stamped down upon that thought as soon as it wormed its way to the forefront of his mind. There was a path, he merely needed faith to find it. In the end, a man has nought but faith. Sons of Sigmar knew that better than any.

A thousand miles away from his mental turmoil, the little man still stood, his wrinkly face clearly lined with worry for all his efforts to appear not so.

With an internal sigh, Heinrich stood, moulding his face into a vaguely pleasant mask. He had done it so many times before, it came like breathing by now.

"Ah, but the apology must be mine, good man. I am merely a guest here, and this is hardly a private place. You are… Master Lowin, I believe?"

Noticeably more relaxed now, the little man managed a small smile, one hand idly worrying at the small chain of multi-coloured metals that hung about his neck.

"It is Maester Luwin, Ser. Truth be told, I meant only to search the godswood for some herbs I suspected I might need for poultices and decoctions."

Luwin vaguely gestured towards a small pouch around his waist, which Heinrich could see was indeed stuffed with all manner of wildflower and small herb.

"I had no intention of watching you," Luwin continued, "But I could not help but be fascinated by your religious rites."

Heinrich rose an inky eyebrow at that.

 _Religious rites? Man makes me sound like a damned cultist._

"I am merely performing my morning prayers to Sigmar, good man. They are customarily directed towards the rising sun."

Luwin nodded, eyes shining with naked curiosity.

"I have heard you and your fellows refer to Sigmar before. If you'll pardon my asking, what is he? Some manner of god?"

Heinrich bit his lip, conflicted. On the one hand, Klutzer had made it clear he did not like them socializing with the locals. On the other… was it his duty to spread Sigmar's light? Was that why he was chosen? But why him? He was a good Sigmarite in his own humble opinion, but hardly an Arch-Lector. He closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts before he answered the old man, who looked about set to begin bouncing on his heels like a little boy.

"Sigmar is the name of the mightiest of our gods, the Heldenhammer, who was once man. Born under a twin-tailed comet, he would grow to be the mightiest warrior who has ever lived, as well as the wisest and cleverest king. With his divine warhammer, Ghal Maraz, he united the twelve divided tribes of our ancestors into one Empire, with himself as the first Emperor. Though his reign was fraught with all manner of danger, he nonetheless ruled over the most prosperous and successful era in the entire history of the Empire."

Luwin nodded sagely, clearly fascinated.

"Astounding. I myself have studied history at the Citadel. Mostly Westerosi history, though, with only a minor education on the Essosi. But this Sigmar… I have never heard of a man who became a god. Nor of this Empire, either. Where is it located? Beyond the Sunset Sea, perhaps?"

Now that was a question that Heinrich could not answer, both because he had no desire to, but also because he did not know himself where it was relative to this land. If the wizards were correct, one could travel the width of this world and never find the Empire, as this was a different world altogether. That thought still ignited a measure of anxiety in his bosom.

"I know not, I'm afraid to admit. It is located in the Old World, though I've never heard of this 'Sunset Sea'."

Luwin gave a dissatisfied sigh.

"Most unfortunate. Though very enlightening, in any case. Here, many gods are worshipped, though in this particular region folk venerate the nameless Old Gods of river and tree and rock. This is a holy place to them, in fact, and it's said that the faces of the gods were carved into the weirwood trees. I've come upon Lord Stark praying here countless times over the years."

That prompted Heinrich to look back at the tree. Frankly, he could not see the appeal. Taalites at least believed that Taal and Rhya were in every tree, that they could see all beneath the sky. A god so limited as one that needed physical eyes was a god not worth worshipping, in Heinrich's opinion. He carried his god with him wherever he went, for the Spirit of Sigmar was with all who truly had faith. But, he was not about to sneer at these folk and their primitive superstition. He had a bit too much grace for that. His pondering was interrupted by a nervous cough by Luwin beside him, who looked to be clearly still holding himself back from unleashing a barrage of questions.

"I've also been wondering, good ser, about that magnificent creature you ride. None of my colleagues have ever heard of a real, living griffon. At least dragons we know exist, but a griffon? Never in a thousand years of learning has a maester ever came upon such a beast, and the members of my order have travelled to the ends of the world. I would like to study it, if you would permit me."

That took Heinrich back a bit. Griffons were certainly rare in the Empire, but everyone knew they existed. What sort of mundane realm had they stumbled upon? It seems dragons were an exception, naturally. Heinrich had himself never seen one, though like all Reiksguard he knew of the beast that lurked in the deepest parts of the Imperial Zoo, the dragon that Karl Franz managed to tame.

"Well, as long as I supervise you, I see no problem with that," Heinrich allowed, "I warn you though, griffons are ornery beasts, and you must heed my commands exactly."

Luwin nodded emphatically, thirsty for knowledge.

Before Heinrich could ask another question, the air was pierced by the low mourning wail of a horn, and then by the steady pealing of the castle bells. He stiffened instantly, and once more his hand dropped to the pommel of his blade. Usually, horns meant incoming attack, though truly he had no clue himself. Luwin dispelled the mystery for him, glancing upwards and sighing.

"It would seem the search party returns. I would suggest you accompany me, Ser Heinrich, I suspect that Templar Klutzer will want you there."

Heinrich could not deny him, so followed the little man as they swept through the neat gate to the sacred grove. Klutzer had told him to keep the griffon roosted, as their gracious hosts apparently feared that Victory would rip them to pieces at the slightest provocation. That was not strictly true, but Heinrich was hardly about to shatter their misconception. Fortunately, griffons had no problem with sleeping the day away. Most people only saw the eagle part of the beasts when they looked upon them, but truthfully griffons take after their cat side more. Klutzer did not want any conflicts with these people thus far, not until they knew where Johann was. He did not miss how the guardsmen eyed him, no doubt sizing him up in case the worse came to be and Lord Stark ordered his imprisonment. Thinking objectively, Heinrich figured he could kill an easy 6 or 7 before they wisened up and try to fill him with arrows. To be quite frank, his reception here didn't ease his mild distaste for these heathens. In the Empire folk would all but fall on their knees at the sight of a Reiksguard knight on a griffon gracing them with his presence. Of course, he was not so arrogant as to _expect_ such, but certainly it would be nice to receive something other than hooded glances from wary commoners and openly suspicious glares from guardsmen.

At least the women still gave him slyly appraising looks when they thought he was not looking. Heinrich was certainly not ignorant of the fact that the gods had graced him with handsome features.

So that hadn't changed. Another constant to add on his small mental list of things that were the same between this world and the one he had left. It was minor, but it was something.

Luwin made good pace for such an old man, and navigated the yawning courtyards and dirt coated pathways with the grace of someone half his age. Though morning had come, the air still had a bite to it from the previous night, and only begrudgingly did the sunlight dispel the gloom of dawn. He took the time to casually give the castle yet another lookover, in case he had missed something. As ever, he saw a citadel that was visibly ancient, grey like the wolves that coated every bloody banner here. In fact, the whole thing put him in mind of Middenheim, the mighty City of the White Wolf. Of course, this place was a poor imitation, but the similarity remained. Spiralling towers and curtain walls looked down at him, as confident and assured as an elderly Sister of Shallya. This was a place that was built to last, for certain, like a Bretonnian keep.

He was forced to cut his examination short, for Luwin redoubled his speed as they passed through yet another inner gatehouse to reach the sizeable courtyard that held Winterfell's Northern Gate. It seemed they were a bit tardy, for the search party was already dismounting and being attended to by the castle folk. His first once over had him sighing in relief, for there as always was implacable Klutzer, swooping off his black stallion with practiced ease. He was not alone on his horse, for behind him rode…

 _Oh dear_.

That insufferable Greatsword hobbled off the mount with Klutzer's assistance, and as he came around the horse, Heinrich spotted the arrow that sprouted from his calf like some evil flower. Klutzer looked up and spotted Heinrich and Luwin, waving them over before helping Klaus to lean against a fence post. Luwin dropped to his knees before him, feeling the wound and rummaging in his satchel for some healing poultice, which he applied liberally to the crimson gash.

"Fortunately, the arrow did not penetrate very deeply, which means that I can…" Without warning Luwin yanked the arrow out, immediately stemming the blood flow with a large rag.

"AH, YOU SHIT EATING CHAOS CURSED WHORESON BLOODY FUCK!"

Klaus had murder in his eyes, and had to be restrained by Klutzer and Heinrich. Luwin only gave him a small grin.

"I have heard worse, but that was admittedly one of the more creative curses I've had thrown at me," The little man quipped, wrapping the irate Greatsword's leg with a clean bandage, "This should heal fine, but please do come see me tomorrow so I may determine if corruption has set in."

The ordeal ended, Heinrich looked around them to see that Lord Stark approached, his sons behind him along with the Lady Stark, who had two children clinging to her tightly. Even from here he could see the tears of relief that stained her gorgeous cheeks. It seemed they had found the missing Starks. Well, that was good at least. Unfortunately, Lord Stark's face was utterly inscrutable as he regarded them, those stormy grey eyes missing nothing.

"My lords, good ser. I must apologise, for I had assumed that one of your number had stolen my children. Instead, you have helped find them, and suffered wounds protecting them," Lord Stark raised his hand, which Klutzer haltingly took, staring at it like it was the strangest thing in the world. For a witch hunter unused to gratitude of any kind, it likely was. "You have my thanks."

That surprised Heinrich. Noblemen in his experience were almost invariably self-important slime, and the more powerful the slimier. That such a powerful lord was giving them his thanks rather than sneering was refreshing, to say the least. Behind Stark, his two sons inclined their heads with similar sentiment, but only after sharing a quick glance between themselves. Before Heinrich could say anything, Klaus spoke up from his place in the dirt.

"It wasn't any trouble at all, m'lord. Defending the innocent is commanded of us by Sigmar, after all," Klaus declared, and his usually jovial appearance turned deadly serious, "But I really must insist we go looking for the direwolf. It saved my life, we owe it that much, at least."

Klaus looked like he wanted to say more than that, but decided against it. Lord Stark frowned, but nodded.

"Aye, if it helped save my children, I'll have my sons take some men to look for the beast. A direwolf you say? There hasn't been one of those seen south of the Wall in centuries," Lord Stark explained, "That they've returned is troubling news, if you're speaking true."

Klaus seemed satisfied by that, and then craned his head past them to get a look at something past them, grimacing when he saw it.

"Will someone go lend poor Johann a hand? Sorry bugger looks ready to keel over."

All of them turned to see that sure enough, the blue-robed mage slouched over in the saddle of a mangy gelding. He looked like shit, to be quite frank, his skin an unhealthy chalk white, and blood dripped from his nose and ran from his eyes like tears of crimson. His clothes and short beard were already being stained red. Heinrich strode over to him in a hurry, and just in time, for the ailing wizard fell from his seat into the Reiksguard's arms. Klutzer ran over and helped sling the wizards arms over their shoulders. Luwin inspected him at a glance, a grey eyebrow furrowed in confusion.

"What's happened to him? He looks like he's been poisoned!"

Klaus grabbed a fence railing and pulled himself up with a pained groan, waving away a groom's hand of assistance.

"Ah, not poisoned exactly. Perhaps we should take him to a sickbed, and then we can talk."

Klutzer looked miffed at that, seeing as he was usually the one giving the orders, but agreed nonetheless.

"Indeed. It wouldn't do if Johann died on us," Klutzer announced, and then muttered under his breath, " _At least not before I get to kill the idiot myself_."

Lord Stark nodded his assent, leaning in to say something in private to his sons, who both nodded and moved off to speak with some of the trackers and grooms. Lady Stark looked over at himself and his countrymen then, her bright blue eyes ever-so-slightly narrowed. Heinrich resisted the urge to give her his most charming smile. Lord Stark was a fortunate man indeed, for his wife was the very image of beauty and grace. Heinrich imagined that she was more or less what most Bretonnians had in mind when they prayed to their Lady in the Lake. Finally, she broke off the stare and turned to attend her errant two children, who were wildly gesturing towards Klaus and Johann and talking over each other in what sounded like a rather fantastical story. The Stark children were the spitting image of their parents, he had to admit. Either they had the fiery hair and blue eyes of their mother, or the long face and grey eyes of their equally dour father. It was quite remarkable, truly. Both of Heinrich's parents had been fair of hair, as was his uncle. His father had oft liked to joke that he had been dropped in a barrel of ink when he was a babe, that left his hair stained black for life. That thought was unexpected, for Heinrich had not thought of his father for some years, dead as he was. Perhaps a new world was making his sentimental. They could hardly afford that now, so he suppressed the thoughts. It was a skill he had learned long ago, and he was a deft hand at it by now.

Beside him, Klutzer cleared his throat pointedly, and with a sheepish smile Heinrich helped him haul the limp wizard across the courtyard, towards a tall tower that Luwin beckoned them over to. He chanced one last glance up, and smiled even wider, for high above them soared his own venerable mount. Even from as high as Victory was, his powerful form and mighty wings beating steadily were readily visible.

Another thing that was the same here as in the Old World. His griffon was his guardian.

 _Praise Sigmar._


End file.
